*!"•••*      .  V  ::•'! :,.: 


THE  FORGOTTEN  PALACE  or  MALCONTENTA 


UNVISITED 
PLACES  OF 
OLD  EUROPE 

By 

ROBERT  SHACKLETON 

Author  of  "The  Quest  of  the  Colonial"  Etc. 


Illustrations  by 
WALTER  HALE  AND  RALI»H  L.  BOYER 


THE       PENN       PUBLISHING 
COMPANY      PHILADELPHIA 

1914 


p 


COPYEIGHT 

1904  1910 
1913  BY 
THE  PENN 
PUBLISHING 
COMPANY 


First  printing,  October,  1913 
Second  printing,  December,  1913 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 


O 


Contents 


PAGE 


I.  THE  BEGINNING  OF  IT  ALL 7 

II.  FINDING  THE  STRANGEST  CORNER  or  EUROPE 16 

III.  IN  THE  SCILLY  ISLANDS 21 

IV.  GETTING  TO  GUERNSEY 40 

V.  WHERE   KING   GEORGE  is  STILL  DUKE  or  NOR- 
MANDY   45 

VI.  A  PENINSULA  OF  PATRONYMICS 60 

VII.  THE  NORMAN  HOME  OF  THE  BRUCE 83 

VIII.  UNEXPECTED  SURVIVALS  IN  AND  NEAR  PABI&.  ....  102 

IX.  IN  THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN V.i.iC*  liS 

X.  FREE  AND  INDEPENDENT  LUXEMBOURG  ... ..,,.-....  136 

XI.  NEUTRAL  MORESNET 157 

XII.  WATERTOCHTJES  IN  HOLLAND 175 

XIII.  THE  OLD  RED  CITY  OF  ROTHENBURG 189 

XIV.  LIECHTENSTEIN:  A  SOVEREIGN  STATE 204 

XV.  THE  PASSES  OF  THE  ALPS  IN  SNOW  AND  ICE 228 

XVI.  THROUGH  THE  DOLOMITES  IN  WINTER 236 

XVII.  A  WILLIAM  TELL  OF  UNVISITED  MOUNTAINS 252 

XVIII.  AN  UNFAMILIAR  NAPLES 273 

XIX.  ALONG  THE  BRENTA:  ONCE  A  HIGHWAY  FOR  THE 

WORLD 285 


442279 


Illustrations 

THE  FORGOTTEN  PALACE  OF  MALCONTENTA Frontispiece 

PAGE 

IN  A  LAND  BEYOND  LAND'S  END 18 

TROPICAL  TREES  ON  THE  SCILLY  ROCKS 26 

FIELDS  or  NORTHERN  MID- WINTER  FLOWERS 36 

AN  ENGLISH  CAPITAL  UNDER  OLD  FRENCH  LAWS 48 

THE  FASCINATING  SHORE  or  GUERNSEY 56 

A  BYWAY  IN  A  NORMAN  TOWN 68 

A  VILLAGE  OF  THE  COTENTIN 78 

AT  THE  NORMAN  HOME  OF  THE  BRUCE 94 

IN  A  TOWN  OF  WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR:  VALOGNES 98 

THE  CASTLE  OF  GODFREY  DE  BOUILLON 122 

A  TOWERED  GATEWAY  LEFT  FROM  OLD  FORTIFICATIONS..  140 

IN  INDEPENDENT  LUXEMBOURG 148 

A  PROCESSION  IN  NEUTRAL  MORESNET 172 

A  SHADED  WATERWAY  OF  HOLLAND 178 

WINDMILLS  SEEN  ON  A  WATERTOCHTJE 186 

THE  WALL  OF  ROTHENBURG 192 

A  CORNER  IN  THE  OLD  RED  CITY 200 

A  THOUSAND  YEARS  OLD  AND  NEVER  CAPTURED 210 

THE  DELECTABLE  VALLEY  OF  LIECHTENSTEIN 220 

A  FAMOUS  PASS  THAT  CAN  BE  CROSSED  IN  WINTER. 232 

SEEN  FROM  A  SLEDGE  EN  THE  DOLOMITES 240 

WINTER  IN  THE  ITALIAN  ALPS 248 

PIEVE  DI  CADORE  WHEN  DEEP  IN  SNOW 254 

A  FUNERAL  WITH  MASKED  ATTENDANTS 274 

A  STAIRWAY  STREET  OF  NAPLES 278 

IN  A  PALACE  OF  THE  BRENTA:  AT  STRX 294 


UNVISITED   PLACES 

OF 

OLD   EUROPE 

I.    THE  BEGINNING  OF  IT  ALL 

"X  7~OU  are  the  first  American,"  said 

\    /     the  hostess  of  the  inn,  beaming 
j     coincident     hospitality,     curiosity, 
s*§==  JL    and    surprise;    "you    are    the    first 
American   to   enter   this   principal- 
ity!" 

And  that  was  really  the  begin- 
ning   of    it;    the    incitement,    the 
stimulus,    the    cause.      For    there 
*  S  comes   a   thrill,   in   the  very  heart 

of  the  old  and  traveled  Europe, 
in  learning  that  you  are  the  very  first  of  your  own 
people  to  find  out  something  new;  something  im- 
portant and  interesting  and  new.  It  made  me  real- 
ize the  charm  of  it,  and  I  felt  that  this  should  but 

[7] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

be  the  beginning  of  seeking  out  interesting  and  un- 
visited  places. 

And  next  day  the  feeling  was  conclusively  con- 
firmed, for  the  Governor  called  upon  me  and  said, 
with  a  dignity  which  carried  his  full  impression  of 
the  distinction  of  the  fact:  "You  are  the  first 
American  to  enter  the  limits  of  Liechtenstein! 
We  know  of  America,  and  letters  come  from  Amer- 
ica, for  to  your  land  some  few  of  our  people  have 
gone,  but  never  before  has  any  one  from  America 
entered  this  principality." 

Yet  it  is  an  autonomous,  independent  principal- 
ity, nooked  among  mountains,  between  Switzer- 
land and  Austria.  It  gave  me  a  new  idea  of  the 
possibilities  that  lie  before  the  traveler  who  wishes 
to  find  the  unknown  or  little  known,  yet  would 
like  to  find  it  in  connection  with  the  usual  tourist 
journeyings,  but  has  neither  time  nor  money  and 
perhaps  not  even  the  inclination  to  travel  far  from 
the  usual  paths.  And  the  very  fact  that  an  un- 
visited  place  is  near  the  beaten  track  gives  a  tang 
and  a  zest. 

In  Liechtenstein  there  came  a  keener  pleasure, 
a  finer  savor  of  discovery,  in  the  knowledge  that 
the  old  white  castle,  perched  precipitously  upon  its 
cliff  of  white  rock,  is  every  year  seen  from  car 
windows  by  hundreds  of  Americans  going  past 
Liechtenstein  on  the  other  side  of  the  valley. 

There  are  two  Europes.  There  is  the  Europe 

[8] 


The  Beginning  of  It  All 

visited  of  Americans  and  the  Europe  unvisited; 
the  Europe  known  and  the  Europe  unknown;  the 
Europe  of  the  well-traveled  routes  and  the  Europe 
so  much  away  from  them  that,  so  far  as  the  mass  of 
tourists  are  concerned,  it  might  just  as  well  be  non- 
existent. 

And  unless  one  visits  the  unvisited  it  is  impos- 
sible to  have  a  just  understanding  of  what  Europe 
really  is;  unless  one  goes  where  few  or  none,  among 
travelers,  have  been  before  him,  he  misses  the  most 
subtile  of  traveler's  pleasures.  For  the  sake,  there- 
fore, of  really  knowing  Europe,  and  for  the  sake 
of  one's  own  enjoyment,  satisfaction,  gratifica- 
tion, both  the  unfamiliar  Europe  and  the  familiar 
Europe  should  be  seen. 

For  Europe  is  more  than  the  tourist  hotels,  the 
famous  cathedrals,  the  dimly  glorious  Old  Masters, 
the  great  cities;  it  is  all  these,  and  very  properly 
these,  but  it  is  also  life  and  customs  that  have 
remained  unspoiled  by  thronging  visitors,  castles 
that  have  never  known  the  footsteps  of  the  traveler 
from  across  the  sea,  regions  where  one  finds  all  the 
fascination  of  discovery. 

And  there  is  another  and  delightfully  unexpected 
side.  It  is,  that  if  one  learns  the  charm  of  seeking 
out  the  unvisited  or  little  visited,  it  adds  so  vividly 
to  his  experiences  that  ever  afterward  he  seeks 
for  the  unknown  even  in  the  best-known  places. 
Yield  to  the  fascination  of  the  long  and  lonely  roads 

[9] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

of  the  Forest  of  Arden,  and  you  will  seek  for  the 
unusual  in  the  very  heart  of  Paris;  follow  the-  an- 
cient line  of  travel  into  ancient  Venice,  and  you  will 
look  with  confidence  for  the  unexpected  along 
Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand. 

But  acquiring  a  love  for  half-hidden  corners 
ought  not  in  the  least  to  cause  one  to  lose  his  sense 
of  proportion  and  belittle  the  places  that  are  com- 
monly seen.  Because  you  come  to  know  and  appre- 
ciate the  charm  of  Vaduz  as  one  of  the  independent 
capitals  of  Europe,  you  should  not  underrate  the 
value  of  such  capitals  as  Vienna  or  Rome.  It  is  the 
man  who  knows  Germany  best  who  will  most  appre- 
ciate Moresnet,  the  man  who  knows  England  best 
who  will  most  appreciate  the  Scillys. 

The  charm  of  seeking  out  the  little  known  is 
infinitely  enhanced  by  the  fact  that  it  may  so  easily 
be  done.  For  there  is  a  vast  deal  of  the  unvisited 
that  is  readily  reachable,  lying  as  it  does  in  an  ac- 
cessible seclusion,  off  the  usual  routes,  but  delight- 
fully near.  Yet  the  mistake  should  not  be  made  of 
going  to  places  that  have  remained  unvisited  be- 
cause they  are  not  particularly  worth  visiting;  it  is 
better  to  go  to  places  that  are  of  essential  signifi- 
cance and  charm.  Fortunately  there  are  many 
such  places,  and  each  discovery  is  an  incentive  to 
the  search  for  more. 

Throughout,  in  Liechtenstein,  the  first  of  my  un- 
visited places  of  old  Europe,  I  felt  like  a  Colum- 

[10] 


The  Beginning  of  It  All 

bus.  For  a  discoverer  needs  not  to  find  an  unin- 
habited region;  it  need  only  be  new  to  his  own 
people.  Columbus  discovered  America,  but  the 
native  American  was  there  before  him;  Living- 
stone explored  Africa,  yet  none  the  less  there  were 
Africans  there  before  his  explorations;  and  so  any 
of  us  may  truly  discover  a  region,  so  far  as  we  our- 
selves are  concerned,  even  though  we  find  the  native 
Europeans  there.  The  fact  that  I  found  Liechten- 
steiners  in  Liechtenstein  did  not  at  all  affect  the 
point  of  view  of  those  Liechtensteiners  that  I  was  a 
discoverer,  nor  did  it  affect  my  own. 

The  old  inn  was  delightful,  with  its  floors  of 
stone  or  of  waxed  and  polished  wood,  and  for  the 
first  day  I  ate  in  a  delightful  old  room  with  walls  of 
paneled  wood  that  had  long  since  mellowed  to  a 
soft  nut-brown.  The  tables  were  hand-hewn  and 
bare,  and  the  chairs  were  products  of  peasant  handi- 
craft, not  without  sturdy  distinction  of  outline. 
The  hostess  was  eager  to  please  the  stranger,  and 
I  was  given  the  best  of  the  inn's  few  rooms,  a  room 
low-ceilinged,  immaculately  clean,  with  an  ancient 
smell  of  wood-fires  and  beeswax,  the  beeswax  being 
on  the  floor,  and  the  wood-fire  (for  it  was  in  winter) 
being  within  a  great  cube  of  stone,  at  the  side  of  the 
room;  an  ancient  stone  stove,  stoked  only  from  the 
hall — the  stoking  being  frequent  and  generous, 
with  much  dull  and  deadened  noise  of  stirring  poker 
and  hurtled  logs.  There  was  vin  de  Faduz;  there  was 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

peasant  bread  baked  by  the  village  baker  from  home- 
grown village-milled  wheat — bread  that  made  fra- 
grant half  the  capital  when  the  oven  was  drawn — 
there  were  vegetables  that  had  been  grown  in  the 
inn's  own  garden  and  stored  in  its  great  cellars. 
And  there  was  the  daughter  of  the  hostess,  the 
pretty  maid  of  the  inn,  she  of  the  black  hair  and 
lips  of  dewy  red,  and  frock  and  apron  in  a  harmony 
of  brown  and  black,  and  a  manner  of  shy  curiosity 
as  to  the  explorer  who  had  ventured  into  Liechten- 
stein. It  was  charming  to  hear  her  prettily  talk 
long-syllabled  German,  and  still  more  charming 
to  hear  her  chirp  a  pretty  French,  which  she,  like 
the  other  children  of  the  principality,  could  freely 
learn  at  the  liberal  schools  of  the  liberal  ruler. 
In  all,  I  felt  as  if  living  a  traveler's  tale  of  old,  for 
all  was  so  different  from  the  usual  impersonal  service 
of  these  modern  times. 

With  the  coming  of  the  second  day  I  had  to  relin- 
quish the  delight  of  dining  in  the  paneled  room, 
and  must  sit  in  state  in  a  stiff  and  formal  apart- 
ment on  the  second  floor,  while  the  hot  dishes, 
devotedly  cooked  for  me  alone,  cooled  as  they 
were  carried  through  cold  corridors  and  up  the 
stairs — a  room,  however,  which  gloried  in  shelves 
of  fine  old  pewter.  And  I  yielded  to  the  change, 
for  I  saw  that  it  was  due  alike  to  the  dignity  of  the 
house  and  of  myself;  it  was  because  of  the  call  of 
the  Governor,  beyond  which  there  could  not  be 

[12] 


The  Beginning  of  It  All 

greater  local  honor,  for  the  Prince  himself  lives  in 
Vienna. 

When  I  add  that  the  name  of  the  Governor  is 
Carl  von  In  der  Maur,  auf  Strelburg  und  zu  Freifeld 
(I  quote  his  card),  that  to  his  title  of  Cabinets  rat 
he  adds  that  of  Landesverweser  im  souveranen 
Fiirstentume  Liechtenstein  (Governor  of  the  sover- 
eign Principality  of  Liechtenstein),  and  that  he  is 
the  trusted  personal  representative  of  his  absent 
Prince,  it  will  not  seem  surprising  that  the  innfolk 
and  townspeople  stood  properly  in  awe,  not  only 
of  him,  but  of  any  to  whom  he  unbent. 

I  returned  his  call,  and  the  day  following  that 
he  came  again  to  the  inn,  this  time  to  cicerone  me 
to  the  ancient  Liechtenstein  castle  that  stands  in 
perched  ruin  far  above. 

To  do  proper  honor  to  Liechtenstein  and  to 
America,  we  were  to  go  in  the  Governor's  carriage 
(the  only  carriage  in  the  principality,  so  far  as  I 
remember),  in  full  form,  with  coachman  and  foot- 
man in  brilliant  liveries,  and  it  was  amid  the  re- 
spectful awe  of  a  group  of  gathered  onlookers  that 
we  made  our  triumphal  start. 

But  the  road  shortly  became  steep,  and  then 
steeper;  it  had  really  been  made  for  a  period  ante- 
dating carriages,  when  men  rode  only  on  horses 
and  trained  their  horses  to  climb  like  goats.  Un- 
obtrusively, the  footman  dropped  off  and  fell  in 
close  behind,  thus  becoming  a  footman  in  fact  as 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

well  as  in  name.  Up  and  up,  higher  and  higher, 
steeper  and  steeper,  the  road  mounted,  and  soon 
the  horses  were  laboring  so  hard  that  the  coach- 
man was  fain  also  to  take  the  ground  and  coax  and 
lead  his  panting  pair  of  roans.  It  was  evident 
that  seldom  before,  if  ever,  had  the  horses  been 
set  to  clamber  up  this  mountain  road. 

Meanwhile,  with  fine  detachment,  the  Landes- 
verweser  im  souveranen  Fiirstentume  Liechtenstein 
spoke,  charmingly  conversational,  of  this  thing 
and  that,  of  world-politics,  of  the  splendid  scenery, 
of  my  own  journeyings  and  of  America. 

But  the  time  came  when  he  could  no  longer 
remain  oblivious.  "I  am  about  to  get  out  and 
walk,"  he  said,  "but  I  beg  of  you — " 

But,  of  course,  then  I  also  walked,  and  thus, 
through  groves  of  noble  beech  trees,  we  attained 
the  splendid  cliff  and  drew  up  in  front  of  the  castled 
ruin;  yes,  "drew  up,"  for  the  horses  were  still  with 
us,  and  liveried  coachman  and  liveried  footman 
were  still  with  us,  dignity  demanding  that  there 
be  no  such  weak  giving  up  as  would  have  been  in- 
volved in  halting  twelve  legs  of  the  party  on  the 
mountain  side  and  sending  them  back  crestfallen 
to  the  capital;  we  drew  up,  I  say,  upon  the  noble 
cliff,  beside  the  noble  old  ruin,  and  looked  off  at  the 
noble  view. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  it.  Once  tasting  the 
fine  flavor  of  untrodden  ways,  I  determined  not  to  be 


The  Beginning  of  It  All 

content  with  a  single  success,  but  to  find  other  un- 
known or  little  known  places  quite  as  important 
and  quite  as  interesting.  And  from  time  to  time, 
since  then,  I  have  sought  such  places  out,  without 
ever  departing  widely  from  the  paths  followed  by 
those  who  go  to  London,  to  Paris,  to  Venice,  to 
Berlin. 

And  in  this  book  I  write  of  some  of  the  places  I 
visited,  reaching  them  by  train,  by  diligence,  by 
wagon,  by  little  boat,  by  sledge;  a  number  of  locali- 
ties that  make  an  easy  zigzag  from  Land's  End  to 
the  Adriatic;  localities  that  can  be  visited  as  a  series 
or  which  can  readily  be  explored  on  little  trips  just 
off  the  customary  routes.  And  I  found  a  never- 
failing  joy  in  thus  journeying  about  old  Europe. 


. 


II.    FINDING  THE  STRANGEST  CORNER 
OF  EUROPE 

HAD  long  been  impressed 
by  the  bleak  savagery  of 
the  Scilly  rocks,  the  dan- 
gerous   and    desolate    as- 
pect   that    they    offer 
to  those  who  view  them 
from  the  decks  of  the 
passing  liners;  the  low 
black    reefs,    and    the 
rounded,  wicked  heads 

of  rock,  some  greened  over  with  slippery  growths, 
some  bare,  that  seem  to  emerge  and  sink  as  the  water 
goes  over  them;  and  so,  when  it  came  to  me  that 
there  was  another  side  to  it  all;  that  those  rocks, 
so  bare  and  black  and  ominous,  so  apparently  un- 
inhabited and  uninhabitable,  really  sheltered  a  dis- 
trict glowing  with  a  lush  and  tropical  growth  and 
lived  in  by  a  unique  community,  it  seemed  as  if  it 
must  be  particularly  worth  visiting.  And  it  was. 
I  went  there  from  Plymouth,  leaving  my  steamer 
there  and  taking  a  train  for  Penzance,  the  sailing- 
point  for  the  Scillys. 

Plymouth   itself  no  longer  has   anything  of  the 
past  to  show  the  visitor.    It  is  a  clean,  comfortable, 


Finding  the  Strangest  Corner  of  Europe 

pleasing  little  city,  neat  and  new — far  newer  than 
the  Plymouth  of  America! — but  in  connection  with 
its  harbor  there  are  two  impressions  that  will  be 
forever  memorable.  For  it  was  from  Plymouth 
that  the  Pilgrims  sailed  to  a  future,  for  themselves 
and  their  descendants,  beyond  their  wildest  imagin- 
ings, and  it  was  in  Plymouth  harbor  that  the  great 
Napoleon,  a  captive  on  an  English  ship,  had  his 
first  and  last  view  of  the  country  that  he  had  so 
recently  dreamed  of  conquering,  but  which  was, 
instead,  sending  him  from  his  empire  of  Europe  to 
exile  and  nothingness. 

From  Plymouth  to  Penzance  is  a  charming  ride  of 
eighty  miles;  and  the  English  trains,  of  whose 
swiftness  such  wonderful  tales  are  told,  cover  the 
distance  in  the  dignified  dilatoriness  of  from  three 
to  four  hours.  But  you  have  no  desire  for  haste; 
you  are  in  England  to  see  England,  and  this  is  one 
of  its  most  picturesque  regions;  for  the  gardens  and 
fields  and  trees,  the  hedges  and  winding  roads,  the 
gently  rolling  land,  the  houses  of  weathered  stone, 
all  glimpsed  successionally,  are  a  delight  to  the 
eye.  From  London  the  ride  to  Penzance  is  a  little 
longer;  take  a  night  express,  and  you  will  leave 
London  at  nine  and  reach  Penzance  for  breakfast, 
but  it  is  more  pleasurable  to  take  a  day  train  and 
reach  Penzance  in  time  for  dinner.  In  fact,  the 
wise  traveler  in  Europe  to  whom  time  and  money 
are  important,  seldom  travels  at  night  except  between 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

England  and  the  Continent,  for  so  much  that  is  of 
interest  and  importance,  in  any  of  the  countries, 
may  be  seen  from  the  car  windows. 

Penzance  itself  is  a  pleasant  town,  but  when  that 
has  been  said  all  has  been  said.  In  spite  of  operatic 
fame  there  are  not  even  pirates  there! — no,  not 
even,  so  far  as  my  experience  goes,  among  hotel 
folk  or  shopkeepers.  It  is  itself  ten  miles  from 
Land's  End,  but  there  is  no  town  nearer  than  it  to 
that  point  of  jagged  rocks,  and  so,  being  the  far- 
thest of  towns  and  harbors,  it  is  the  point  of  depart- 
ure for  the  Scillys,  and  little  steamers  ply  from  the 
town  to  the  islands  several  times  a  week;  in  summer 
for  the  English  boarder  and  casual  tripper,  and  in 
winter  for  the  chief  industry  of  the  islands.  Thirty 
miles  out  beyond  the  supposititious  ultima  thule, 
Land's  End,  and  completely  out  of  sight  from  where 
its  sentinel  rocks  watch  over  the  sea,  the  bleak-black 
islands  lie;  and  there  are  somewhere  from  two 
score  to  two  hundred  of  them,  the  computation 
being  dependent  upon  whether  a  good  many  of  the 
islands  are  classed  as  rocks  or  a  good  many  of  the 
rocks  as  islands.  It  takes  some  four  hours  or  more 
to  reach  the  Scillys  from  Penzance,  and  as  they  are 
right  out  in  the  ocean,  with  nothing  between  them 
and  North  America,  the  winds  come  sweeping  with 
such  force  as  often  to  rouse  tremendous  seas.  I 
thought  the  passage  over  was  rough,  with  the  little 
steamer  standing  first  on  one  end  and  then  upon  the 

[i  8] 


IN  A  LAND  BEYOND  LAND'S  END 


^ 


Finding  the  Strangest  Corner  of  Europe 

other,  but  it  remained  for  the  return  trip,  some 
days  later,  to  show  what  the  sea  thereabouts  could 
really  do. 

But  one  ceases  to  notice  the  roughness  when,  out 
of  the  sea,  there  begin  to  rise  rock  after  rock,  and 
one  low  promontory  after  another;  and  finally  the 
little  boat  is  steered  precariously  between  jagged 
reefs,  and  through  a  narrow  passage,  and  into  an 
interior  island-locked  bay,  and  up  to  the  pier  of 
the  capital  of  the  archipelago,  on  one  of  the  five 
islands  that  are  inhabited. 

The  islanders  will  tell  you  how,  one  morning 
scarce  a  dozen  years  ago,  they  awoke  to  find  that 
in  the  night  a  fleet  of  British  warships,  without 
the  aid  of  a  local  pilot  and  following  only  the  leader- 
ship and  signals  of  the  flagship,  had  quietly  entered 
through  the  narrow,  reefed  and  rocky  channel  and 
lay  at  anchor  there;  and  they  say  with  awe  (for, 
descendants  of  generations  of  sailors,  they  are  them- 
selves always  ready  to  honor  good  sailing)  that  the 
captain  of  every  British  warship  must  be  able  to 
enter,  unassisted,  any  harbor  in  the  world. 

And  if  you  should  say  that  it  was  not  always  so, 
even  in  the  good  old  days  of  wooden  walls,  for  the 
greatest  of  all  disasters  in  English  naval  history  hap- 
pened on  the  Scillys  because  an  admiral  lost  his 
bearings  and  ran  his  ships  upon  the  rocks,  they  will 
hesitate  for  a  moment,  impressed,  and  then  will 
reply  that  it  is  not  precisely  a  case  in  point,  for  the 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

admiral  was  not  steering  to  enter  the  haven,  but  was 
trying  to  avoid  the  Scillys  altogether. 

St.  Mary's  is  the  principal  island  and  Hugh 
Town  is  the  capital;  a  little,  low-set  town,  looking 
out  quietly  over  the  land-locked  water.  There  I 
landed,  and  I  put  up  at  one  of  the  two  little  inns, 
and  was  fairly  within  the  strangest  corner  of  Eng- 
land. 


III.     IN  THE  SCILLY  ISLANDS 

ERE  is  fantastic,  impossible 
England  —  romantic,   prepos- 
terous England.     Also,  it  is 
practically  an  unknown  Eng- 
land.     Rarely  has  an  Ameri- 
can come  here  except  when 
wrecked,   and  usually,   then, 
f  he  has  been  in  no  condition 
_  to  continue  his  journey,  and 

has  been  fortunate  if  he  was 

found  and  a  stone  placed  over  him.  Even  to  most 
of  the  English  the  region  is  unknown.  Add  to  this 
that  it  is  tropical  England,  and  even  then  the 
enumeration  of  its  peculiarities  is  not  complete, 
for  it  is  a  place  of  contradictions,  of  contrasts,  of 
incongruities. 

And  the  people  set  here  in  the  midst  of  the  sea, 
within  barriers  of  bleakness,  within  these  naked 
shores  of  windy  desolation,  are  not  principally  fol- 
lowers of  the  sea.  They  are  tillers  of  the  soil!  In 
the  Scillys  it  is  the  unexpected  that  one  must  al- 
ways come  to  expect.  Beginning  with  the  contra- 
dictoriness  of  being  land  far  out  beyond  Land's  End 
and  continuing  with  the  contrast  of  palm  trees  and 
savage  reefs,  not  in  the  Indian  Ocean,  but  here  in 

[21] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

the  North  Atlantic,  there  comes  then  this  further 
touch  that  the  men  of  these  sea-girt  islands  have 
little  to  do  with  things  of  the  sea. 

The  government  of  the  Scillys  may  be  termed  an 
absolute  despotism.  So  the  people  consider  it,  and 
they  like  it,  and  they  love  to  refer  to  their  ruler  as 
"the  King."  And  this  beneficent  despot,  this  lord 
of  the  isles,  this  ruler  who  saith  unto  one  man  Come, 
and  he  cometh,  and  to  another,  Do  this,  and  he 
doeth  it,  is  plain  Mr.  Smith!  It  is  the  glorification, 
the  apotheosis  of  Smith.  In  a  land  where  rank  is 
worshipped,  no  marquis  or  duke  wields  such  un- 
qualified power  as  does  this  simple  "Mister." 

And,  marvels  on  marvel's  head  accumulating,  he 
does  not  even  own  the  islands.  He  is  but  lessee 
from  the  English  government,  and  while  lessee  is 
looked  upon  as  their  lord  proprietor. 

He  pays  all  the  taxes,  and  thereby  his  people  are 
inordinately  pleased.  True,  they  pay  "rates"  for 
roads  and  schools,  but  they  draw  a  distinction,  per- 
haps not  always  discernible  by  strangers,  and  for 
that  very  reason  the  more  delightful,  between  these 
payments  and  taxes. 

"What  power  does  Mr.  Smith  possess?"  I  asked 
an  islander. 

"Oh,  he  has  all  power,"  was  the  reply. 

"But  what  can  he  do  to  you?" 

"We'd  better  be  good,  for  he  can  do  anything  to 
us,"  came,  in  awed  sincerity. 

[22] 


In  the  Scilly  Islands 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  can  punish,  as  chief  of  the 
justices  of  the  peace,  to  the  limit  of  a  few  months'  im- 
prisonment, and  if  there  is  any  right  of  appeal  from 
his  decisions  the  islanders  have  neglected  to  learn  it. 

But  that  is  only  a  small  part  of  his  power.  He 
wields  absolute  control  over  rents,  leases,  steamer- 
landings,  all  the  pleasures  and  all  the  business  of  the 
islands.  He  is  not  reticent  in  expressing  his  will,  and 
everywhere  his  will  is  supreme. 

The  people  bitterly  resent  being  called  "  islanders  " 
— as  if  this  were  not  pre-eminently  what  they  are! 
Yet  they  equally  resent  all  reference  to  their  islands 
as  "rocks."  Their  name,  so  they  insist,  is  "Scil- 
lonians." 

In  the  old  days  the  Scillonians  were  not  a  farmer 
folk.  They  were,  in  order  of  importance,  wreckers, 
smugglers,  sailors,  pilots,  fishermen.  Well  may 
wrecking  be  considered  the  principal  industry  of  the 
past,  for  the  wrecks  of  the  Scillys  are  numbered  in 
thousands.  Every  rock  has  its  remembered  wreck 
or  wrecks,  and  the  number  of  unremembered  wrecks 
is  legion. 

Steam  changed  the  Scillys.  Wrecks  grew  fewer. 
Steam  fishing-boats  competed  too  successfully  with 
sails  and  oars.  Few  ships  sought  refuge  in  the  road- 
stead. Poverty  impended.  And  then,  three-quarters 
of  a  century  ago,  came  the  advent  of  the  first  Mr. 
Smith,  Augustus  Smith,  an  uncle  of  the  present 
lessee. 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

Augustus  Smith  was  a  wise,  farseeing,  arbitrary 
man;  a  beneficent  tyrant.  He  instituted  an  iron 
rule,  and  exerted  vigorous  oversight.  He  ordained 
compulsory  education  forty  years  before  it  became 
the  law  of  England.  And  education  was  needed. 
It  was  only  a  century  ago,  so  old  men  say,  that  there 
were  no  books  upon  the  islands  except  a  Bible  and  a 
Doctor  Faustus.  The  people  decided  to  secure  a 
new  library — and  sent  to  Penzance  for  another 
copy  of  Faustus. 

This  greatest  of  all  Smiths  was  a  miracle  worker, 
in  the  sense,  that  highest  and  best  sense,  that  a  man 
can  be  a  worker  of  miracles  who  is  able  to  perceive 
the  possible  at  the  very  heart  of  apparent  impos- 
sibility. He  saw  that  here  and  there  in  sheltered 
nooks  the  primrose  and  the  violet  grew  wild  and  the 
wall-flower  tossed  its  perfume  to  the  winds,  while 
snow  fell  swirling  in  London  streets.  But  to  him  it 
was  more  than  a  phenomenon;  it  was  an  inspiration. 
It  was  more  than  a  curious  contradiction;  it  pointed 
out  the  way  to  give  to  his  unprosperous  people 
prosperity.  If  a  few  flowers  could  grow  by  chance 
on  those  windswept  islands,  a  great  many  flowers 
could  be  grown  by  cultivation;  whereupon  he  insti- 
tuted the  growing  of  early  flowers  for  the  London 
market.  He  showed  his  amazed  people  how  to  make 
the  almost  deserted  islands  to  blossom  with  narcissus 
and  jonquil  and  daffodil  and  lily. 

He  divided  the  arable  ground  into  little  holdings, 

[24] 


In  the  Scilly  Islands 

and  taught  the  protective  virtues  of  hedges  and 
stone  walls.  And  he  decreed  that  no  family  should 
keep  more  than  one  son  at  home,  to  make  his  living 
from  the  tiny  patch,  nor  more  than  one  daughter  to 
assist  with  the  flowers  and  with  the  household 
tasks.  Surplus  sons  and  daughters  were  to  go  to 
sea,  or  the  army,  or  the  mainland,  or  find  definite 
employment,  or  marry  and  secure  little  holdings  of 
their  own.  Many  were  banished;  but  the  grief  and 
rage  of  the  islanders  gradually  turned  to  devoted 
love,  for  prosperity  came;  and  now,  from  early 
January  and  throughout  February  and  March,  the 
shipments  of  flowers  are  estimated  only  in  tons. 

And  winter  is  the  time  for  the  seeing  of  the  Scillys. 
True,  the  sea  is  rougher,  and  the  night  wind  is  more 
chill,  but  it  is  in  winter  that  the  splendid  fields  of 
flowers  may  be  seen.  They  are  not  on  every  island; 
like  the  inhabitants,  they  are  on  but  few,  making  of 
those  few,  to  quote  a  Swinburne  line:  "a  small 
sweet  world  of  wave-encompassed  wonder." 

And  Despot  Smith  did  more.  He  planted  trees 
and  plants  where  there  was  but  windswept  heath. 
And  what  trees  and  what  plants!  Giant  palms  of 
the  tropics;  rhododendrons  twenty  feet  in  height; 
camellias  flowering  gloriously.  There  are  bamboo 
and  aloe  and  magnolia.  Within  his  private  estate,, 
on  Tresco,  where  he  has  wrought  all  this,  are  the 
crumbling  arches  of  an  ancient  abbey,  now  tropically 
embowered,  where  anciently  monks  prayed  in  an 

[25] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

infinite  bleakness.  He  has  made  Tresco  a  garden 
which,  considering  everything,  is  the  most  remark- 
able garden  in  the  world. 

But  Smith  died,  and  another  Smith  reigned  in 
his  stead.  Like  his  uncle  and  predecessor,  whose 
rule  of  almost  forty  years  was  despotism  tempered 
and  controlled  by  wise  beneficence,  the  present 
Smith  wields  a  similar  power  in  a  similar  way.  He 
does  nothing  illegal,  and  all  is  for  his  people's  good, 
but  in  practice  it  is  an  anomaly.  And  as  if  with 
intent  to  accentuate  the  glorification  of  the  family 
name,  his  forebears  doubled  his  cognomen,  he  being 
not  only  a  Smith,  but  a  Smith-Dorrien-Smith ! 

For  centuries  islands  predominantly  of  wreckers 
and  smugglers,  they  are  now  islands  of  the  law- 
abiding.  Schools  and  lighthouses,  churches  and 
wireless  telegraphy  have  come,  but  wrecks  have 
decreased,  and  crime  is  rare.  Yet  there  are  no 
lawyers,  the  people  having  inherited  deep-grained 
dislike  of  all  legal  procedure.  The  four  subjustices, 
seldom  disturbed  by  official  duty,  foregather  every 
Saturday  evening  for  friendly  confabulation.  The 
police  force  of  the  islands  is  never  overworked. 

That  force  consists,  to  be  precise,  of  part  of  one 
entire  man.  The  sole  policeman  is  contrived  more 
than  a  double  debt  to  pay,  for  by  day  he  winds  the 
town  clock,  inspects  sundry  school  and  sanitary 
matters,  sweeps  the  council-chamber,  busies  himself 
diversitively,  and  not  until  nightfall  does  he  assume 

[26] 


TROPICAL  TREES  ON  THE  SCILLY  ROCKS 


abl 
Bir 


In  the  Scilly  Islands 

the  simple  insignia  of  his  rank.  "A  man  must  live," 
he  says,  with  a  futile  attempt  to  veil  his  pride  as 
cap  is  assumed  and  baton  grasped-  Proudly  he 
parades;  and  when,  once  a  year  or  so,  he  goes  to  the 
mainland  with  a  prisoner  requiring  more  than  the 
simple  restraint  of  the  Scilly  lock-up,  it  is  with  ap- 
prehension, for  he  realizes  that  he  leaves  an  archi- 
pelago unprotected. 

There  is  a  town-crier,  too.  He  labors  with  hands 
more  than  voice,  for  it  is  seldom  that  there  is  forth- 
coming the  needful  shilling.  As  with  the  policeman, 
there  is  no  pomp  or  panoply.  A  cap,  a  bell  (diverting 
juxtaposition),  and  he  is  translated  indeed.  The 
thatched  roof  of  his  cottage  caught  fire  recently, 
and,  while  neighbors  worked  to  save  it,  his  own  dis- 
tress was  deep,  perplexed  as  he  was  as  to  whether 
to  join  the  fire-fighters  or  for  once  go  through  the 
town  shouting  news  that  was  worth  while. 

Seen  from  the  ocean-liners  the  Scillys  are  but 
naked  shore  and  windswept  reef.  But  the  liners  are 
of  vast  interest  to  the  islanders!  They  are  far 
nearer  to  Scillonian  Jife  than  is  the  nearest  land. 
These  sons  of  the  sea  not  only  differentiate  line 
from  line,  but  often  ship  from  ship,  and  have  come 
to  know  peculiarities  of  the  courses  steered  by  dif- 
erent  captains — uncanny,  this  silent  watch  by  these 
people  who  have  the  blood  of  countless  generations 
of  wreckers  in  their  veins. 

A  taciturn,   reticent  folk;  yet,   coming  to  know 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

them,  you  will  be  told  such  tales  as  that,  but  a  few 
months  ago,  one  of  the  islanders  saw,  looming  out 
of  the  close-clinging  mist,  a  giant  liner  bearing 
straight  upon  his  little  patch  of  flowers.  There  was 
no  opportunity  for  warning — but,  by  some  miracle 
of  swift  reversing,  the  great  steamer  quivered  and 
stopped,  then  slowly  vanished  into  the  deep,  shiver- 
ing grayness. 

They  point  out,  gravely  and  quietly,  these  folk, 
where  they  expect  the  next  great  wreck  to  be.  Not 
by  that  flower  garden;  that  was  of  the  aberrant. 
Nor  on  the  rocks  beside  that  most  exposed  of  all  the 
lighthouses  of  the  world,  the  Bishop;  although  there, 
years  ago,  a  steamer  from  New  York  lost  more 
than  three  hundred  of  its  passengers.  No,  it  is  upon 
a  certain  obscure  reef  that  the  islanders  expect 
some  twentieth-century  racer  to  rush;  for  the  cap- 
tains of  that  line  steer  too  close  to  it,  they  say. 

The  talk  one  evening  turned  to  tales  of  that  great 
Bishop  wreck.  "The  islands  were  covered  with 
American  money,"  croaked  an  old  man  who  had 
dodderingly  listened.  My  silence,  thinking  of  what 
this  vivid  indirectness  implied,  seemed  to  them  to 
imply  criticism.  "Why  should  we  not  have  what  we 
find?"  said  one,  defensively.  "It  would  only  go  to 
the  government!" 

As  far  back  as  the  time  of  Henry  the  First  there 
were  royal  grants  of  "the  islands  and  their  wrecks," 
and  frequent  was  the  phrase  in  centuries  following. 

[28] 


In  the  Scilly  Islands 

With  royal  encouragement,  why  should  they  not  be 
wreckers ! 

One  Sunday,  long  ago,  service  was  in  progress 
when  there  came  the  cry  of  "Wreck!"  The  men 
started  from  their  seats.  In  a'  moment  there  would 
have  been  a  stampede.  But  they  cowered  back  as 
the  minister  sternly  thundered  a  warning.  He 
strode  to  the  door.  There  was  a  moment  of  sus- 
pense. Again  his  voice  arose.  "Let's  all  start  fair!" 
he  shouted,  throwing  off  impeding  cassock  as  he  ran, 
while  his  congregation  labored  at  his  heels. 

Most  curious  of  all  wrecks  was  that  of  a  bark, 
with  a  cargo  of  beads,  that  went  ashore  more  than 
two  hundred  years  ago.  Nothing  was  ever  known 
of  it,  for  only  some  unidentifiable  wreckage  and  a 
single  dead  body  were  found — an  uncanny  custom 
of  the  currents  is  to  carry  dead  bodies  away — so, 
nothing  was  ever  known  but  that  it  was  a  ship  with 
a  cargo  of  beads;  and  so  generous  has  been  the  ocean 
with  this  treasure,  that  throughout  these  two  cen- 
turies it  has  intermittently  been  tossing  beads  ashore, 
yet  so  frugally  that  the  supply  is  not  yet  exhausted, 
for  in  a  few  minutes'  search  I  found  some  that 
had  been  thrown  there  since  the  last  search  of  the 
islanders. 

Dire  tales  cling  grimly  to  these  reefs:  of  false 
lights,  of  lights  extinguished  at  most  bitter  need,  of 
shipwrecked  men  fighting  off  apparent  rescuers  and 
deeming  the  sea  the  less  ferocious  foe. 

[29] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

Upon  St.  Agnes  there  is  a  frightful  cove  which 
bears  St.  Warna's  name;  rock-hemmed,  with  merci- 
less rock  covering  what  ought  to  be  a  beach,  and  with 
nothing  to  relieve  the  rocky  savagery.  At  the  edge 
of  the  rocky  shore  is  a  well;  and  beside  that  well, 
in  ancient  days,  islanders  gathered,  once  a  year,  to 
pray  to  St.  Warna  to  send  them  plethora  of  wrecks. 
They  prayed  for  wrecks,  those  men,  as  the  inhab- 
itants of  happier  regions  pray  for  harvests.  They 
were  sincere;  and  they  deemed  that  the  answers 
justified  their  faith — as,  indeed,  the  number  and 
frequency  of  wrecks  in  the  old  days  of  sailing  ships 
might  not  unfairly  seem  to  imply. 

A  religious-minded  folk,  judging  from  the  sainted 
cognomens  of  the  isles,  the  Scillonians  must  an- 
ciently have  been.  St.  Helen,  St.  Warna,  St.  Mary, 
St.  Agnes,  St.  Martin — such  are  names  which  the 
old-time  devoutness  applied. 

And,  grim  though  are  the  islands  and  their  history, 
the  Scillonians  are  not  without  a  certain  sense  of 
salty  humor. 

A  ship  was  sailing  home  from  the  Indies.  The 
night  was  tempestuous  and  fog  crept  over  the  sea. 
The  captain  feared  the  Scillys.  "Is  there  any  one 
who  knows  the  rocks?"  said  he. 

A  Scillonian  responded  and  was  given  the  helm — 
and  suddenly  there  came  a  crash. 

"You  said  you  knew  the  Scillys!"  cried  the 
captain,  furious  and  aghast. 

[30] 


In  the  Scilly  Islands 

"Yes;  and  this  is  one  of  them,"  was  the  reply,  as 
the  ship  went  shivering  to  pieces. 

And  the  sombre  tale  of  Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel  is 
still  told;  of  how,  with  a  gallant  fleet,  he  was  sailing 
home  from  the  Mediterranean  and,  nearing  these 
reefs,  was  warned  by  a  Scillonian  of  his  crew. 

But  the  admiral  paid  no  heed.  The  weather  was 
thick  and  foggy,  and  the  admiral's  bearings  were 
lost,  but  he  arrogantly  refused  to  believe  that  there 
could  be  danger.  When  he  was  told  that  the  Scil- 
lonian insisted  that  they  were  steering  for  the  Scilly 
rocks  he  ordered  the  man  hanged  as  an  example  to 
others  who  might  mutinously  hold  opinions  con- 
trary to  their  officers. 

The  man  yielded  stoically  to  his  fate,  begging 
only  the  single  boon  that  he  be  permitted  to  choose 
a  psalm  to  be  read  before  he  died.  The  psalm  was 
read,  the  109th,  with  its  maledictory  lines: 

"  Let  his  days  be  few;  and  let  another  take  his  office. 
Let  his  children  be  fatherless,  and  his  wife  a  widow. 
Let  there  be  none  to  extend  mercy  unto  him:  neither 

let  there  be  any  to  favour  his  fatherless  children. 
Because  that  he  remembered  not  to  shew  mercy." 

The  man  was  hanged.  In  a  little  while  breakers 
were  discovered  in  the  very  path  of  the  ships;  it 
was  too  late  to  escape,  and  the  ships  were  dashed 
upon  the  rocks  with  the  loss  of  the  admiral  himself 
and  two  thousand  of  his  men. 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

The  admiral's  body  was  tossed  ashore,  high  in  a 
grassy  cove;  but  never  afterward  did  grass  grow 
on  the  spot  where  the  body  lay.  A  punishment, 
this — such  is  the  na'ive  view-point  of  the  true  Scil- 
lonian — not  for  losing  two  thousand  lives,  but  for 
cruelty  to  one  of  the  islanders. 

Alas,  poor  admiral!  As  if  all  this  were  not  enough, 
he  is  commemorated  in  Westminster  Abbey  with  so 
absurd  a  monument  as  moved  Horace  Walpole  to 
the  jibe  that  it  made  men  of  taste  dread  such 
honors. 

Franklin,  in  his  autobiography,  records  that  just 
fifty  years  after  the  wreck  of  this  great  fleet  the  ship 
on  which  he  himself  was  going  to  England  was  al- 
most wrecked  on  the  Scillys.  It  was  midnight, 
and  the  captain  was  fast  asleep;  all  sails  were  set, 
and  Franklin,  who  was  on  deck,  tells  of  how  unex- 
pectedly the  ship  was  almost  upon  the  rocks,  and  of 
how  it  was  saved  only  by  the  dangerous  operation 
of  veering  swiftly  around  with  all  sails  standing. 
It  was  probable,  he  adds,  that  they  were  in  the 
grip  of  the  "strong  indraught  which  caused  the 
loss  of  Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel." 

Behind  the  ragged-tempered  sea,  the  wrinkled 
rocks,  are  long  slopes  covered  thick  with  yellow 
gorse,  with  furze,  with  sturdy  grass,  with  tossing 
fern.  Rocks  are  gray  with  fungi  and  lichens  in  in- 
numerable hues,  and  seaweed  clings  in  endless  variety. 
There  are  puffins  and  shags  and  terns;  there  are  the 

[32] 


In  the  Scilly  Islands 

kingfisher  and  the  giant  cormorant.  And  gulls 
love  to  whiten  the  rocks  like  snow. 

Inside  the  roadstead,  the  island-locked  bay,  are 
wimpling  waves  and  stretches  of  white-gleaming 
sand;  yet  even  this  roadstead  is  often  rough  for  small 
craft,  and  the  people  watch  anxiously  when  the 
doctor  is  rowed  over  by  twelve  sturdy  volunteers. 
As  to  dentists,  there  is  none;  although  the  teeth  of 
the  islanders  give  way  early,  owing,  so  they  believe, 
to  the  preserved  rain-water  which  they  perforce  drink. 

Less  than  two  hundred  feet  is  the  greatest  height 
upon  the  islands,  and  yet  from  many  a  headland  there 
is  a  far-reaching  and  delectable  view. 

Although  the  Scillonians  have  mostly  ceased  to 
be  men  of  the  sea,  there  are  still  splendid  boatmen 
there,  and  it  is  a  keen  delight  to  go  sailing  with  one 
of  them.  On  a  windy  day,  with  the  never  quiet  surf 
raging  furiously,  it  is  thrilling  to  be  with  him  as  he  goes 
veering  and  tacking  in  and  out  and  around  with  his 
flying  craft,  missing  a  deadly  reef  by  a  hand's-breadth 
and  the  next  moment  just  escaping  a  foaming  rock. 

Right  brave  blood  there  is  in  these  island  folk. 
Charles,  afterward  king,  found  for  six  long  weeks 
a  refuge  here  from  the  Parliamentarians.  Later, 
the  islanders  gallantly  but  vainly  fought  for  royalty 
against  a  powerful  fleet,  and  a  stone  fort  of  that 
period  frowns  over  one  of  the  channels.  Another 
stone  fort  was  built  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth. 

It  was  natural  that  this  region  should  stand  for 

[33] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

the  monarchy,  for  legendary  belief  holds  that  the 
Scillys  are  all  that  are  left  of  royal  Lyonesse,  the 
land  that  sank  in  the  depths  of  the  sea. 

Lyonesse!  There  is  magic  in  the  very  name. 
It  stretched  out  from  Cornwall,  this  land  of  Round 
Table  history,  and  the  Scillys  were  the  projecting 
headlands  or  islands  at  the  very  end.  Within  the 
land  that  sank  in  the  turbulent  ocean  were  a  hun- 
dred and  forty  parishes,  so  the  old  chroniclers  aver, 
and  one  tells  of  seeing  ruins  far  beneath  the  water. 
Seen  with  the  eye  of  faith?  Perhaps.  And  what 
a  touch!  Yet  when  mists  of  the  mighty  Atlantic 
close  between  Land's  End  and  Scilly,  even  the  most 
meagre  imagination  may  be  touched  with  venture- 
some insight,  and  even  the  dullest  ear  may  hear 
the  vague  echoing  of  ancient  parish  bells.  Curious, 
too,  that  from  time  immemorial  the  island  folk  have 
called  the  intervening  sea  the  "Lioness,"  and  that 
tradition  has  insistently  pointed  out  the  reef  of 
Seven  Stones  as  the  site  of  the  principal  city  of  the 
kingdom.  Where  there  is  so  much  smoke  of  legend 
there  is  surely  some  fire  of  truth. 

It  is  as  unscientific  as  it  is  unjust  to  require 
that  an  ancient  legend  shall  absolutely  prove  it- 
self. Justice  and  science  alike  demand  that  a 
legend  of  a  respectable  appearance  should  be  con- 
sidered innocent  unless  it  be  proved  guilty,  and  this 
more  especially  when  it  has  so  charming  a  savor 
of  the  saltness  of  time. 

[34] 


In  the  Scilly  Islands 

From  Lyonesse  King  Arthur  came;  it  was  across 
the  dales  of  Lyonesse  that  his  followers  fled  when  he 
was  slain;  and  Lyonesse  is  inseparably  connected 
with  the  story  of  Tristram  and  Ysolte,  for  Tristram 
was  the  son  of  its  king.  It  is  more  logical  to  believe 
in  the  essential  existence  of  a  Lyonesse  than  to 
doubt.  Geology  notes  the  similarity  between  the 
granite  of  Cornwall  and  that  of  the  Scilly  rocks; 
and  there  are  so  many  Druidical  remains,  so  many 
rude  stone  crosses,  as  to  point  out  the  unlikeliness 
of  these  islands  always  having  been  so  far  from 
the  mainland  as  now.  And  for  some  centuries  his- 
torical records  are  scanty.  There  are  also  ruins  of 
ancient  castles  and  churches,  but  of  these  few  ves- 
tiges remain.  Fishermen  and  wreckers,  finding 
blocks  of  stone  ready  to  their  hands,  built  these 
seats  of  the  mighty  into  huddled  huts. 

One  feels  the  fascination  of  what  may  have  hap- 
pened many  and  many  a  year  ago  in  this  kingdom 
by  the  sea.  Walking  at  random,  I  came  to  a  path- 
way on  the  top  of  a  wall.  Below  me  lay  an  ancient 
moat,  long  since  dry.  The  pathway  led  me  to  a 
flight  of  stone  steps,  at  the  foot  of  which,  in  solid 
rock,  were  ancient  grooves  for  the  oaken  doors  and 
chain  of  a  portcullis.  An  underground  passage 
led  from  this  sally-port,  and  opened  upon  a  charm- 
ing little  garden,  the  ghost  of  a  garden  fronting 
the  sea,  where  the  ladies  of  the  vanished  castle 
whiled  away  the  hours  till  their  knights  returned. 

[35] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

In  a  shadowed  corner  is  an  old  stone  bench,  narcis- 
sus and  jonquil  grow  rich  and  lush,  and  the  enclosing 
wall  dips  straight  down  to  the  rocks  and  the  rest- 
less water. 

Tennyson  wrote  feelingly  of  "the  sad  sea-sounding 
waves  of  Lyonesse";  of  its  "trackless  realms,"  of 
its  glens,  all  "grey  boulder  and  black  tarn."  And 
he  visited  Lyonesse.  But  local  tradition  retains 
nothing  pleasant  in  regard  to  him;  on  the  contrary, 
it  holds  only  the  memory  of  a  bitter  dispute  with  his 
landlady  as  to  the  cost  of  some  broken  china.  It  is  a 
pleasanter  literary  tradition  that  fixes,  upon  the  now 
deserted  island  of  Samson,  the  ruined  house  supposed 
to  have  been  the  home  of  the  heroine  of  that  most 
charmingly  named  of  novels,  Armorel  of  Lyonesse. 

There  is  no  middle  class  in  Scilly,  and  the  good 
policy  of  this  is  evident  from  the  standpoint  of  an 
absolute  ruler.  To  compensate  for  the  littleness 
of  public  power,  there  are  many  to  wield  it.  Al- 
most every  man  is  councillor  or  justice,  alderman 
or  health  officer,  or  has  to  do  with  rates,  schools, 
police,  or  other  department  Lilliputian.  And  it 
keeps  the  people  contented  and  proud. 

With  such  a  subdivision  of  honors  one  should 
expect  the  pluralist  to  be  unknown.  But  herein 
lies  another  of  the  delightful  contradictions.  Not 
only  does  the  policeman  perform  duties  multi- 
farious, but  there  is  another  man  who  is  at  the  same 
time  clerk  to  the  guardians  of  the  poor,  clerk  to  the 

[36] 


FIELDS  OF  NORTHERN  MID-WINTER  FLOWERS 


on! 
fari 

• 


In  the  Scilly  Islands 

magistrates,  clerk  to  the  council,  registrar  of  births, 
marriages,  and  deaths,  clerk  to  the  education  com- 
mittee, and  officer  to  the  coroner!  Yet  time  often 
hangs  heavy  on  his  hands. 

For  v  centuries  there  has  been  a  curious  cosmo- 
politanism here.  In  the  blood  of  the  islanders  there 
are  strains  from  every  maritime  nation.  The  reefs 
took  their  toll  of  the  Armada.  Wounded  British 
were  landed  from  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill.  And 
from  time  to  time  the  wrecked  and  the  refugee 
made  their  home  here. 

But  the  cosmopolitanism  of  the  living  is  as  noth- 
ing to  that  of  those  who  came  so  far  to  drown. 
They  that  went  down  into  the  sea  in  wrecks  were  of 
every  nationality,  of  every  variety  of  wealth  and 
power,  fame  and  obscurity. 

Some  of  the  old-fashioned  headstones  of  the 
islanders  carry  the  very  flavor  of  the  sea;  such  as 
the  one  which  piously  tells  that,  "Though  he's 
been  where  billows  roar,  still,  by  God's  help,  he's 
safe  on  shore,"  and  which  concludes  with  the  as- 
severation that  "Now  he's  safe  among  the  fleet, 
waiting  for  Jesus  Christ  to  meet." 

Ever,  at  Scilly,  the  thoughts  return  to  wrecks. 
And  frightful  as  are  the  waves  in  great  storms, 
when  deep  calls  unto  deep,  it  is  not  from  storm, 
but  fog,  that  the  greatest  disasters  have  come. 
Scillonians  themselves,  before  they  became  flower- 
growers,  paid  with  usury  the  ocean's  claims,  and  it 

[37] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

used  to  be  said  that  for  one  Scillonian  who  died  a 
natural  death  nine  were  drowned.  And  so  fierce 
and  treacherous  are  the  currents  that  the  strongest 
swimmer  may  be  carried  away  before  the  eyes  of 
the  stoutest  rowers.  Recently,  two  boats,  return- 
ing in  company  to  the  roadstead,  chose  different 
courses  to  pass  one  of  the  islands.  One  was  never 
heard  of  again,  neither  men  nor  boat;  for  the  wild 
current  that  had  capsized  and  seized  the  craft 
had  borne  it  and  its  sailors  far  out  to  sea. 

These  people,  some  two  thousand  in  all,  huddle 
upon  these  rocks  like  sea-birds  in  a  storm.  Their 
very  capital,  Hugh  Town,  has  been  inundatingly 
driven  from  its  location,  and  even  now  is  so  exposed 
that  it  will  infallibly  be  driven  to  move  uneasily 
anew. 

It  is  only  those  who  love  water  who  should  go  to 
Scilly.  One  is  not  permitted  to  shoot  the  birds; 
but  one  may  fish  and  float  and  dream. 

Often  an  icy  wind  sweeps  over  the  flower-patches, 
and  often,  at  night,  a  bitter  chill  creeps  stingingly 
in  from  the  sea.  And,  oddly  enough — except  that 
it  is  another  of  the  expected  incongruities — the 
picturesqueness  of  fact  is  not  reflected  in  pictur- 
esqueness  of  appearance,  for  they  look  only  common- 
place. Yet  their  very  commonplaceness  makes  it 
possible  that  men  and  women  are  here  who  have 
never  traveled  so  far  as  the  mainland. 

Always,  in  the  Scillys,  romance  seems  near  at  hand; 

[38] 


In  the  Scilly  Islands 

it  is  a  region  to  stir  the  heart  and  the  imagination 
and  give  a  tingle  to  the  blood. 

Yet  much  has  suffered  a  land  change.  Ships' 
planking  has  been  eagerly  seized  upon  for  fences. 
Now  and  then  a  prow  becomes  a  gate-post.  Ships' 
bells  that  sounded  the  knell  of  sailors  now  ring 
gayly  for  these  dwellers  on  rock.  And  many  a 
figure-head  which  erstwhile  stood  at  the  prow  of 
some  stately  ship  sentinels  a  gateway  or  stares  im- 
passively over  a  field  of  narcissus.  For  these  people 
love  figure-heads,  and  describe  them  with  uncanny 
pride.  This  was  from  a  Spanish  ship;  that,  a  Dutch; 
this  one,  a  saint,  bore  to  safety  the  sole  survivor 
from  a  Portuguese  bark.  Thus  the  long  list  goes  on. 
The  estate  on  Tresco  is  particularly  rich  in  this 
spoil  of  the  sea.  And,  final  incongruity  of  all,  a 
noble  Neptune  watches  patiently  in  the  garden  of 
that  beneficent  untitled  ruler,  Mr.  Smith. 


IV.    GETTING  TO  GUERNSEY 

T  seemed  particularly  de- 
sirable to  go  to  Guern- 
sey, even  more  than  to 
Alderney  or  Jersey  or 
Sark,  those  others  of  the 
islands  that  are  still 
>  more  French  than  Eng- 
'  lish,  although  they  have 
been  in  English  pos- 
session since  the  time 
of  the  Conqueror  Wil- 

Jiam;  for  I  understood  that  in  Guernsey,  to  even 
a  greater  extent  than  in  her  sister  islands,  were 
retained  the  ancient  ways. 

And  there  are  various  ways  of  getting  there.  I 
might  have  taken  a  boat  that  runs,  for  at  least  part 
of  the  year,  from  Plymouth,  but  was  told  that  it 
was  temporarily  out  of  commission.  Steamers  sail 
twice  daily,  except  Sundays,  from  Southampton 
and  from  Weymouth,  direct  to  Guernsey,  giving 
passengers  the  choice  of  a  ride  by  daylight  or  at 
night,  the  trip  taking  some  four  or  five  hours.  But 
I  learned  that  a  little  boat  puts  out  twice  a  week  or 
so  from  Cherbourg,  and,  as  I  had  a  steamer  stop- 


Getting  to  Guernsey 

over  at  Plymouth,  from  the  liner  by  which  I  had  ar- 
rived there,  and  could  conveniently  arrange  to  be 
at  Plymouth  on  the  necessary  day,  I  decided  to  cross 
the  Channel  from  there  and  then  take  the  Cherbourg 
boat.  This  insured,  too,  a  pleasant  crossing  of  the 
Channel,  for  however  rough  it  may  be  for  the  ordi- 
nary boats,  the  big  liners  are  seldom  affected  by  it. 

That  matter  of  steamer  stop-overs  is  one  that  is 
worth  noticing.  I  found  it  convenient,  this  time, 
on  my  way  to  Cherbourg;  another  time  I  ran  back 
to  Plymouth  from  London  and  caught  a  liner  to 
Hamburg,  thus  making  a  delightful  and  restful  way 
of  getting  there;  and  the  same  thing  may  con- 
veniently be  done  with  stop-overs  at  Gibraltar  and 
at  Naples. 

The  steamer  from  Cherbourg  for  Guernsey  was 
more  tiny  than  the  one  that  had  taken  me  to  the 
Scillys.  A  sudden  storm  had  delayed  its  arrival  for 
a  day,  and  I  watched  it  come  bobbingly  in.  The 
captain,  exasperated  by  having  his  schedule  of 
sailings  interrupted,  exclaimed  in  picturesquely  de- 
termined language  that  he  would  return  at  once, 
even  though  the  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast. 
Within  three  minutes,  however,  the  deserting  tide 
so  left  his  boat  in  the  mud,  such  being  the  excellence 
of  vaunted  foreign  harbors  for  craft  that  venture 
to  the  piers,  that,  unsubmissively  acquiescent  to 
fate,  he  announced  postponement  until  six  in  the 
morning. 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

An  uncivilized  hour,  I  protested,  but  he  declared 
that  needs  must  when  a  floatable  tide  drives.  So  at 
six  I  was  there — only  to  learn  that  he  was  still  fast 
asleep  in  the  hotel  I  had  reluctantly  left!  Yet  I 
am  glad  I  went  in  that  particular  way,  for  there  was 
far  more  of  amusement  than  annoyance  in  the  man's 
declarations  and  shortcomings.  And  the  very  boat 
itself,  so  impossibly  tiny  for  a  rough  voyage,  seemed 
a  joke.  After  all,  too,  we  cross  the  Atlantic  for 
things  that  are  different.  If  all  one  looks  for  is  a 
good  boat,  to  run  on  time  in  an  ordinary  way,  it  is 
not  necessary  to  leave  America. 

Cherbourg  is  an  ancient  city,  in  modern  dress, 
which  has  hid  its  few  vestiges  of  the  past  by  tucking 
them  out  of  sight  and  out  of  mind  in  narrow  and 
forgotten  back  ways.  Yet  there  is  an  extremely 
interesting  exception,  an  old  church,  of  the  four- 
teen-hundreds,  a  church  faded  and  gray  with  age 
and  with  an  ancient  inscription  over  its  altar  that 
carries  a  note  of  pathos  in  its  patriotism,  for  in  few 
and  simple  words  it  expresses  thanks  to  God  for  the 
deliverance  of  the  city  from  the  long  dominion  of 
the  stranger;  meaning  the  end  of  a  long  occupancy 
of  the  city  by  the  conquering  English. 

A  spirit  of  welcome  is  permeative  throughout 
Cherbourg;  everywhere  the  present-day  men  of  the 
city  show  no  desire  to  be  rid  of  the  stranger,  but  to 
welcome  him — at  least,  if  he  be  an  American! — 
and  to  make  his  stay  comfortable. 

[42] 


Getting  to  Guernsey 

At  the  hotel — and  at  different  times  I  have  found 
two  in  Cherbourg  that  are  excellent — after  learning 
that  the  boat  was  not  to  go  that  evening,  I  went  to 
the  writing-room.  A  cold  wind  was  blowing  in  from 
tfye  sea,  and  the  room  was  chilly,  and  the  fire,  in  an 
open  fireplace,  would  not  draw.  It  was  a  coal  fire. 
It  had  been  lit  for  me,  almost  the  sole  guest  at  an 
off-season  time  of  the  year,  and  was  filling  the  room 
with  smoke. 

I  rang,  and  a  green-aproned  porter  made  his  ap- 
pearance and  looked  with  concern  at  the  little  fire 
and  much  smoke. 

The  fireplace  was  between  the  two  front  windows, 
and  I  did  not  see  any  signs  of  a  chimney  rising 
above.  Nor  was  there  any  there! 

The  porter  vanished,  but  with  a  sign  that  he 
would  return.  In  a  few  moments  he  reappeared 
with  a  can  of  kerosene.  "Ah!"  I  thought,  "he  is 
about  to  encourage  the  fire  in  the  good  old  American 
way!" 

But  it  was  the  American  way  with  French  varia- 
tion. For  he  uncovered  a  plate  in  the  floor,  right  at 
my  feet,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  raising  it, 
showed  the  flue,  for  it  ran  down  from  the  fireplace 
and  right  across  the  room  under  the  floor  to  the  rear 
wall,  and  there  into  a  chimney. 

I  watched  the  porter  with  fascinated  interest. 
For  he  soaked  a  rag  with  kerosene,  stuffed  it  into 
the  flue,  touched  it  with  a  match  and  clamped  back 

[43] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

the  plate,  leaving  the  oil-soaked  rag  to  burn;  and 
then,  with  a  look  of  ineffable  but  calm-faced  pride, 
watched  the  coal  in  the  fireplace  until,  in  a  few 
moments,  it  responded  to  the  stimulus  of  the  re- 
stored draft  in  the  kerosened  flue  and  blazed  up.  ^ 
The  ride  out  from  Cherbourg  around  Cap  de  la 
Hague  and  through  the  Race  of  Alderney  is  a 
never-to-be-forgotten  experience,  if  taken  in  a  tiny 
steamer  at  the  tail-end  of  a  storm.  Even  in  the 
calmest  weather  there  are  currents  and  cross-currents 
that  boil  and  swoop  and  rock  and  clutch  and  tear. 
Gilbert  Parker  somewhere  terms  this  passage  "one 
of  the  death  shoots  of  the  tides,"  and  I  should 
suggest  the  crossing  in  the  bigger  ships,  from  South- 
ampton to  Guernsey,  rather  than  by  the  little  boat 
from  Cherbourg,  for  those  who  would  not  enjoy 
a  fairly  wild  experience. 


V.    WHERE  KING  GEORGE  IS  STILL  DUKE 
OF  NORMANDY 

UERNSEY  is  only  a  few 
miles  from  the  English 
coast;  it  is  in  daily  com- 
munication with  English 
ports;  practically  all  of 
its  intercourse,  alike 
business  and  social,  is  with  Eng- 
land; and  yet  King  George  is 
given  allegiance  as  heir  of  the 
Norman  line  rather  than  as  King 
of  Great  Britain.  When,  here  in 
Guernsey,  his  accession  was  officially  proclaimed,  it 
was  as  Norman  Duke  as  well  as  Indian  Emperor 
and  English  King — and  the  people  take  it  seriously, 
and  not  as  an  empty  form.  They  bitterly  resent 
any  naming  of  their  isle  as  one  of  the  British,  and 
equally  do  they  resent  being  accounted  French,  for 
they  are  Norman. 

Nowhere  in  the  world  do  conditions  so  inex- 
plicable exist,  for  there  has  not  for  centuries  been  a 
concomitant  Norman  environment  to  preserve  the 
Norman  tradition. 

Magna  Charta  has  never  touched  Guernsey; 
there  is  no  trial  by  jury;  there  is  a  general  absence 

[45] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

of  supposedly  indispensable  adjuncts  of  liberty  and 
good  government.  Many  of  the  people  still  speak 
the  Norman-French,  which  long  ago  vanished  from 
Normandy  itself.  And,  with  Guernsey's  fascinating 
survivals  of  the  ancient,  there  goes  a  delightful  charm 
of  roads  and  coast-line,  of  flowers  and  houses  and  sea. 

Now  that  Africa  and  the  frozen  Poles  have  yielded 
their  mysteries,  one  wonders,  at  times,  what  is  left 
to  explore.  For  civilized  man  eternally  demands 
the  titillatory  touch  of  novelty!  And  more  mar- 
velous than  to  find  novelty  in  Africa  or  the  Arctic 
is  to  find  it  at  the  very  edge  of  England,  just  off 
that  beaten  path  which  is  so  submissively  trod. 

If  I  begin  with  William  the  Conqueror  it  is  not 
that  I  am  about  to  write  history;  I  shall  write  only 
of  the  present  day.  Yet  to  do  that  in  Guernsey  is 
always  to  go  dipping  back  into  the  misty  past. 

When  they  prepared  to  bury  William  in  the  great 
abbey  church  which  he  had  built  at  Caen,  a  poor 
man  fell  upon  his  knees  and  cried  aloud:  "Ha!  Ro! 
Ha!  Ro!  Ha!  Ro!  A  Faide,  mon  prince!  On  me 
fait  tort!"  ("To  my  aid!  They  are  wronging  me!") 
And  the  burial  of  the  puissant  duke  and  king  did 
not  proceed  until  the  appeal  had  been  listened  to 
and  the  wrong  set  right.  William  had  taken  the 
man's  land,  so  it  appeared,  in  building  the  church, 
and,  as  is  sometimes  the  way  with  great  men,  had 
conveniently  forgotten  to  pay. 

This  Clameur  de  Haro,  as  it  is  legally  termed, 

[46] 


Where  King  George  is  Duke  of  Normandy 

this  very  perfection  of  injunction  peremptory,  had 
long  been  recognized  even  in  William's  time,  and  it 
is  formally  set  down  in  the  code  which,  compiled 
from  the  most  ancient  laws  and  printed  at  Rouen 
centuries  ago,  is  still  in  daily  use  in  Guernsey. 

For  the  Clameur  is  no  mere  antiquarian  dead 
letter.  It  is  with  dread  that  the  conjuration  is  em- 
ployed, for  it  is  like  the  calling  of  spirits  from  the 
vasty  deep,  yet  seldom  does  a  year  pass  without 
its  being  heard.  And  when  invoked  there  is  no  man, 
however  high,  who  dares  disregard  it,  for  it  would 
bring  down  extraordinary  penalties  from  an  extra- 
ordinary and  arbitrary  court. 

It  was  but  a  few  months  ago  that  an  unhappy 
citizen  applied  the  injunction  to  one  of  the  rulers 
of  the  island  who  was  tearing  down  a  building  whose 
ownership  was  in  dispute  between  them.  He  knelt 
upon  the  steps  of  the  court-house,  and  his  voice 
went  quaveringly  as  he  began  the  ancient  cry,  and 
then  shrilled  high  and  loud;  and  people  stood  about 
in  silent  awe  until,  the  rite  complete,  the  man  arose, 
all  trembling,  and  looked  about  him,  uncertain 
and  in  fear.  And  the  rich  man  desisted  instantly, 
and  when  the  court  heard  the  case  it  decided  for  the 
demand  of  the  poor. 

I  talked  with  both  appealer  and  appealed  against. 
"He  had  to  stop,"  said  the  poor  man,  quietly; 
"he  had  no  choice."  "I  had  to  stop  when  he  cried 
'Ha!  Ro/'"  said  the  rich  man,  quietly.  "I  had  no 

[47] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

choice."  And  this  in  the  twentieth  century,  at  the 
edge  of  England,  because  of  the  memory  of  a  certain 
Duke  Rollo,  contemporary  with  the  English  Alfred, 
who  was  so  stern  for  instant  justice,  with  none  of 
those  civilized  delays  which  make  lawyers  rich  and 
justice  difficult,  that  merely  to  call  thrice  upon 
his  name  (Ro  being  an  abbreviation  of  its  Norman 
form)  had  become  incorporated  as  a  legal  proceeding 
of  highest  moment  long  before  the  time  of  William 
the  Conqueror!  And  that  there  were  a  King  Alfred 
and  a  Duke  Rollo  contemporaries,  and  that  law 
could  be  superior  to  castle  and  sword,  shows,  too, 
that  feudal  days  were  not  of  unmitigated  savagery. 
To  hold  men  to  be  savages  merely  because  they 
fought  one  another  would  lead  to  embarrassing 
conclusions  even  in  these  modern  times. 

St.  Peter-Port,  the  capital  of  Guernsey,  rises 
steeply  from  the  sea,  in  red-tiled  houses,  narrow 
and  gabled  and  tall,  and  upon  a  rock  in  the  midst 
of  the  harbor  an  old  castle  sullenly  thrusts  up  its 
walls  from  amid  a  rising  huddle. 

Not  an  ancient  town,  this;  and  yet,  as  you  mount 
its  streets,  you  see  aspects  of  age  in  their  wavering, 
doddering  lines,  and  now  and  then  you  find  old- 
time  buildings  with  projecting  stories  nodding  over 
the  ways.  Many  a  street  is  but  a  lengthening 
stairway  of  stone;  and  in  its  Sunday  calm  the  town 
is  lighted  up  by  the  red-coated  soldiers  marching  in 
a  body  to  church. 


AN  ENGLISH  CAPITAL  UNDER  OLD  FRENCH  LAWS 


Old  Europe 


red 
oo, 

ow 

,  as  you  mount 
old- 

x:A 


Where  King  George  is  Duke  of  Normandy 

Outside  of  the  city  there  are  Norman  houses  and 
Norman  roads,  and  the  green  and  glimmering  hedges 
are  Norman,  and  there  are  tandem  teams  so  dear  to 
Norman  hearts,  and  Norman  roses  clambering  over 
Norman  walls,  and  Norman  blouse  and  gown  in 
red  or  purple  or  blue,  and  ancient  white-capped 
women  endlessly  knitting  just  outside  of  Norman 
cottage  doors.  Guernsey,  and  not  England,  is  the 
"mother  country,"  asserts  the  islander,  for  Guern- 
sey was  Norman  long  before  the  Conquest. 

Forty  thousand  people  there  are  upon  the  island. 
They  are  not  all  of  Norman  type,  business  having 
led  many  others  hither,  and  this  but  adds  to  the 
marvel  of  it,  that  forty  thousand  inhabitants,  of 
mixed  race,  should  continue  under  the  control  of 
laws  ten  hundred  years  old.  For  Guernsey  is  ruled 
by  a  court  and  parliament  which  date  back  their 
forms  and  powers  a  thousand  years,  and  in  which 
judicial  and  legislative  functions  are  inextricably 
blended. 

The  island  is  divided  into  douzaines,  each  with 
its  twelve  douzainiers.  A  few  of  the  douzainiers 
are  also  jurats.  The  jurats  and  bailiff  (he  being 
appointed  by  the  Crown  and  having  only  advisory 
powers)  form  the  lower  and  higher  courts;  and 
those  of  the  higher  court,  with  the  rectors  of  the 
island,  who  are  a  politically  powerful  body,  form 
the  parliament  or  States.  A  few  deputies,  added 
recently,  have  not  altered  the  conditions.  Dou- 

[49] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

zainiers,  jurats,  and  rectors — not  clad  in  a  little 
brief  authority,  these! — are  all  in  office  for  life,  and 
when  a  douzanier  or  jurat  dies  his  fellows  fill  the 
vacancy.  Never  was  there  so  striking  a  division 
into  political  "ins"  and  "outs,"  for  those  who  are  in 
can  never  fall  out.  And  yet  it  is  believed  that  the 
political  machine  originated  in  America! 

There  are  few  crimes  committed  in  Guernsey. 
The  knowledge  that  the  accused  is  seldom  acquitted 
acts  admirably  as  a  practical  deterrent.  And  there 
is  a  very  amusing  side  to  it,  were  it  not  so  serious 
for  the  prisoners. 

The  accused  is  first  subjected  to  a  private  inter- 
rogatoire  before  he  is  allowed  to  see  a  friend  or  lawyer. 
The  bailiff  and  two  jurats  searchingly  question  him, 
alone  and  uncautioned  and  unadvised  of  any  rights. 
Indeed,  a  man  accused  has  no  rights  that  a  jurat  is 
bound  to  respect.  "The  private  inter  rogatoire  is 
often  necessary  for  a  conviction"  is  the  way  it  was 
naively  put  to  me. 

The  prisoner  next  appears  before  the  Cour  de 
Police.  (Not  the  "police  court";  for  in  this  part 
of  the  English  Channel  French  is  the  official  lan- 
guage, in  which  every  law  is  recorded,  every  con- 
tract made,  every  parliamentary  resolution  written. 
Even  the  parliament  only  recently  resolved  that  Eng- 
lish may  be  spoken  when  preferred,  and  now  a  meet- 
ing is  a  babel  of  tongues.  In  Guernsey  a  man  be- 
comes a  linguist  perforce,  there  being  the  English  and 

[50] 


Where  King  George  is  Duke  of  Normandy 

the  Norman  and  the  French.  I  even  noticed  the 
crowning  absurdity  of  an  Ecole  Wesleyenne;  one 
would  think  that  that,  at  least,  would  remain  Eng- 
lish under  the  English  flag.) 

In  the  Cour  de  Police  the  unhappy  prisoner  finds 
himself  facing  the  same  two  jurats  and  bailiff,  who, 
having  heard  him  in  secret,  are  quite  prepared  to 
reward  him  openly;  and  they  have  brought  two  more 
jurats  with  them. 

He  had  best  be  content,  now,  with  whatever  for- 
tune gives  him,  for  should  he  appeal  to  the  upper 
court  he  is  led  from  his  cell  through  an  underground 
passage  up  a  straight  and  narrow  stair,  and  finds 
himself,  emergent,  confronted  by  the  four  jurats 
and  bailiff,  who,  with  their  minds  quite  made  up, 
have  brought  along  several  more  jurats  for  good 
measure.  It  is  as  cumulative  as  the  nursery-house 
that  Jack  built,  for  the  prisoner,  all  forlorn,  finds 
that  nothing  which  is  added  to  the  jingle  is  ever 
allowed  to  drop  out. 

Any  person  may  be  arrested  on  the  bare  word 
of  a  complainant,  and  no  action  for  false  imprison- 
ment lies.  A  man's  house  is  not  his  castle,  for  the 
police  may  search  without  warrant.  Ex  post  facto 
laws  may  be  made.  A  stranger,  arrested,  is  not  ad- 
mitted to  bail.  The  whipping-post  is  in  constant 
operation  (not,  however,  for  wife-beating),  and  the 
punishments  are  precisely  graded,  as,  from  twenty- 
five  to  fifty  strokes  with  a  twelve-thonged  whip,  or 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

from  eighteen  to  twenty-four  with  a  vicious  bunch 
of  jagged  twigs.  In  Guernsey  mercy  does  not  al- 
ways fall  like  the  gentle  dew  from  heaven. 

Indefinite  imprisonment  for  debt  is  in  force,  even 
when  there  has  been  no  fraud.  There  was  but  one 
debt-prisoner  when  I  was  there,  however.  And 
there  is  even  banishment!  It  was  but  a  few  months 
ago  that  a  long-time  resident,  convicted  of  forgery, 
was  sentenced  to  an  imprisonment  of  two  months 
and  a  banishment  of  six  years.  Strangers  may  be 
banished  if  deemed  undesirable  sojourners.  And 
all  this  in  the  Channel,  in  an  island  doing  a  heavy 
business  with  England  in  quarried  rock  and  prosaic 
tomatoes ! 

Peculiarly  a  people,  these,  who  must  not  throw 
stones,  for  that  very  tomato  business  has  put  more 
glass  houses  in  Guernsey  than  are  in  any  other  place 
of  similar  area.  And  the  island  would  have  given  a 
chivalrous  revel  to  Don  Quixote,  for  in  every  direc- 
tion wind-mills  are  seen  flinging  their  giant  arms. 

History  here  is  suggestive  rather  than  insistent. 
For  people  who  so  adhere  to  the  old  in  customs 
there  is  a  curious  disregard  for  the  old  as  expressed 
in  buildings.  So  much  has  been  destroyed  that 
the  past  never  obtrudes.  There  is  never  the  sense 
that  here  is  a  history  lesson  that  must  dutifully  be 
learned.  To  find  details  of  the  iron  past  one  must 
scrape  away  the  accumulated  rust  of  centuries. 
Yet,  for  those  who  care  for  it,  there  is  much  to 

[52] 


Where  King  George  is  Duke  of  Normandy 

summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past.  There 
are  ruins  on  rocky  headlands,  and  on  isolated  heights 
rising  out  of  lone  and  level  flats,  and  every  solitary 
inlet  has  its  tower  of  stone. 

There  are  splendid  views  of  cliff  and  sea,  the 
water  is  tropical  in  its  coloring,  and  by  the  lonely 
shore  you  forget  that  you  are  on  an  island  of  busi- 
ness and  population. 

Those  who  seek  for  memorials  of  "The  Toilers 
of  the  Sea"  will  meet  with  disappointment.  The 
haunted  house  still  stands,  and  it  still  stands  lonely 
on  a  cliff-edge,  but  it  is  prosaically  altered  and 
fenced,  and  is  used  for  a  signal  station  for  ships. 
At  Sampson,  where  Gilliat  lived,  not  only  have  all 
reminders  of  the  story  disappeared,  but  it  is  a  part 
of  the  island  which  business  has  made  quite  un- 
picturesque;  a  pity,  too,  for  it  is  the  only  point 
to  which  electric  cars  run,  and  so  every  visitor 
naturally  makes  his  initial  trip  in  that  direction. 
But  even  at  Sampson  there  is  a  ruined  monas- 
tery, built  in  the  long  ago  by  monks  sent  here  on 
account  of  ungodly  lives;  and  one  wonders  to  what 
torturing  use  they  put,  those  men  of  evil,  certain 
deep-sunk  dungeons  within  the  rocky  walls. 

A  high  and  violent  tide  is  that  of  Guernsey.  The 
sea  goes  sweeping  out,  laying  bare  bleak  secrets 
for  daws  to  peck  at,  and  leaving  ships  high-stranded 
in  the  harbor;  and  then  it  comes  hurriedly  racing 
back,  as  if  to  catch  some  victim  unawares. 

[53] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

To  know  any  people  one  must  know  their  monu- 
ments; and  the  fact  that  Guernsey  set  up  a  costly 
memorial  to  that  Albert  who  did  nothing  to  dis- 
tinguish himself  but  be  married  to  the  Queen, 
shows  the  innate  absurdity  that  one  is  all  along 
expecting  to  find.  For  you  cannot  always  take 
Guernsey  quite  seriously;  it  takes  itself  too  seriously 
for  that. 

But  they  honor  others  far  more  than  Albert. 
Where,  as  here,  the  footprints  on  the  sands  of  time 
have  been  blurred  and  mingled  by  the  centuries, 
such  individual  prints  as  are  preserved  gain  there- 
by an  access  of  importance;  and  so,  when  a  right 
brave  son  of  Guernsey  fights  a  right  brave  sea-fight, 
they  put  up  for  him  a  shaft  of  ninety  feet.  And 
when  a  governor  devotes  himself  to  the  making  of 
roads  they  raise  to  his  memory  a  shaft  six  feet 
higher  than  the  other!  It  is  as  if  the  mathematical 
islanders  figured  it  out  that  as  ninety  is  to  ninety- 
six,  so  is  the  fighter  of  fights  to  the  builder  of  roads. 

And  many  a  road  is  a  road  of  allurement.  There 
are  miles  and  miles  of  twisting,  labyrinthine  charm. 
Many  of  the  lanes  are  so  narrow  that  two  wagons 
cannot  pass.  There  are  myriads  of  flowers.  There 
are  endless  stone  walls.  Horses  and  oxen  plough 
together,  attached  in  anomalous  fraternity.  Men 
and  women  out  of  Millet's  paintings  go  stoopingly 
together  over  the  soil.  Roofs  are  of  time-stained 
tile  and  age-bent  thatch.  Cottages  are  tucked  into 

[54] 


Where  King  George  is  Duke  of  Normandy 

corners  with  that  haphazard  instinct  which,  when 
it  is  a  true  instinct,  is  so  much  superior  to  art. 

In  everything  Guernsey  is  the  place  that  is  differ- 
ent. Men  are  of  age  at  twenty;  the  weekly  half- 
holiday  is  on  Thursday;  the  gallon  is  five  per  cent, 
smaller  than  the  English;  cabbages  grow  so  tall 
that  the  inhabitants  dry  and  varnish  the  long  stalks 
and  sell  them  as  walking  sticks  to  English  visitors; 
to  reduce  English  pounds  of  weight  to  Guernsey 
pounds  one  must  multiply  by  twenty-nine  and  divide 
by  thirty-two;  and  one  is  given  thirteen  Guernsey 
pennies,  expressed  in  terms  of  the  "doubles"  of  its 
own  coinage,  for  every  English  shilling.  He  who 
handles  money  in  Guernsey  is  as  certain  of  trouble 
as  that  the  sparks  fly  upward,  for  there  is  a  hopeless 
mixture  of  French  and  Guernsey  and  English  coin, 
all  of  which  is  legal  tender. 

Is  it  tax-paying  day  or  quarter  day?  Behold  a 
long  line  of  islanders  with  wagons,  and  other  islanders 
with  paniers,  for  great  part  of  rents  and  taxes  is 
payable  in  wheat  and  corn,  in  butter  and  eggs  and 
chickens  and  eels;  and  contracts  calling  for  chickens 
are  likely  to  specify  the  minimum  length  of  "queue." 

Does  a  man  wish  to  sell  or  devise  his  real  estate? 
He  is  not  a  free  agent.  The  eldest  son  has  the  right 
indefeasible  to  the  house  and  to  part  of  the  land, 
and  the  other  children  have  the  right  to  the  remain- 
der. If  there  are  no  children,  and  the  man  makes  a 
deed  of  sale,  it  must  be  publicly  announced,  and 

[55] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

any  one  of  kin  as  near  as  the  seventh  degree  may 
stop  the  transaction  and  purchase  the  land  himself. 
One  easily  understands  why  land  remains  in  the 
same  families  for  generations. 

A  man  dies,  leaving  personal  property.  It  is 
divided  into  as  many  shares,  plus  one,  as  there  are 
children;  the  eldest  son  selects  two  shares,  and  the 
other  children  choose  one  each  in  order  of  age — 
the  original  division,  by  a  clever  device  to  insure 
fairness,  having  been  made  by  the  youngest,  who, 
perforce,  takes  the  share  that  is  finally  left! 

But  the  inhabitants  themselves  see  nothing  curious 
in  all  these  things.  They  are  merely  matter  of 
course,  and  the  visitor  learns  of  them  only  by  patient 
inquiry  and  observation. 

The  other  Channel  Islands,  alike  remnants  of 
old  Normandy,  have  their  own  survivals  of  the  old, 
but  they  are  not  nearly  as  strange  as  those  of  Guern- 
sey. And  Jersey  and  Alderney  and  Guernsey  are 
jealous  rivals  in  every  particular,  and  especially  so 
in  regard  to  cattle  and  foot-ball.  When  Eve,  in 
naming  the  animals,  came  to  the  cows,  she  remem- 
bered all  three  of  these  bits  of  land,  and  a  most 
rigid  quarantine  against  other  cattle  preserves  the 
strains.  And  as  to  football:  I  saw  the  Guernsey 
eleven  hailed  with  mighty  acclaim  returning  from 
Jersey  flushed  with  victory,  and  I  saw  the  Alderney 
men  come  and  play  them;  and  all  Guernsey  was  in 
excitement,  and  the  Governor  himself  appeared  at 

[56] 


THE  FASCINATING  SHORE  OF  GUERNSEY 


presc 


Where  King  George  is  Duke  of  Normandy 

the  game  amid  clamor  of  band  and  acclamation  of 
people. 

The  Governor,  appointed  by  the  Crown,  has 
charge  of  military  affairs.  He  may  sit  in  the  States, 
but  has  no  vote.  He  may  veto,  but  that  power  has 
practically  lapsed  through  long  disuse.  Guernsey 
seriously  holds  that  the  British  Parliament  has  ab- 
solutely no  power  over  it;  that  the  only  power  is 
with  the  King  (the  Duke  of  Normandy)  and  his  privy 
council. 

The  high  court  meets  with  formal  informality, 
turning  readily  from  criminal  cases  to  laws.  Every 
law  must  be  originated  here  to  be  passed  on  by  the 
States  later.  And  if  any  private  citizen  wishes  to 
express  his  opinion  regarding  a  proposed  law  he 
steps  out,  as  I  have  seen  one  do,  to  a  railed  space, 
says  his  say,  his  neighbors  meanwhile  watching  and 
listening  open-mouthed,  and  then  shuffles  back  with 
bashful  haste,  rubbing  a  reddening  nose  as  he  fur- 
tively tries  to  gain  some  indication  of  how  well  he 
played  his  part. 

Purple  gowns,  and  square-topped  caps,  and  white 
"rabbet"  ties  are  matter  of  moment  to  jurats  and 
douzainiers  and  bailiff,  with  cognate  question  of 
ermine  or  silk  or  cloth  inferior;  but  they  are  chary 
of  wasting  their  regalia  on  the  outside  air. 

A  tranquil,  placid,  contented  island,  in  spite  of  the 
Draconian  severity  of  its  laws  and  the  Vehmgericht 
powers  of  its  rulers.  A  law-abiding  people,  in  spite  of 

[57] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

the  petty  thefts  requiring  flagellatory  discipline. 
A  beneficent  people,  in  spite  of  a  firm  dislike  to  give 
aid  to  those  who  ask  for  it.  A  fund,  established 
over  three  centuries  ago,  yields  five  hundred  pounds 
annually  for  the  help  of  people  who  help  them- 
selves, and  it  expresses  the  Guernsey  standpoint. 
There  must  be  no  begging.  If  an  islander  should 
beg  he  would  be  imprisoned  instantly.  A  stranger, 
begging,  is  shipped  to  a  point  "as  near  as  possible" 
to  his  home.  And  what  that  place  may  do  with 
him  is  of  no  manner  of  importance  to  Guernsey. 

This  illustrates  a  certain  canny  quality  that  at 
times  peeps  out;  as  it  does  in  the  long  lists  of  cor- 
porations whose  headquarters  are  printedly  sup- 
posed to  be  in  lawyers'  offices  near  the  court-house, 
because  articles  of  incorporation  mean  revenue  for 
the  island  and  advantage  to  the  corporations — as 
in  some  of  our  own  smaller  Eastern  States.  And 
speaking  of  our  own  country,  one  is  reminded  of 
the  fact  that  in  Ohio  there  is  a  county  of  Guernsey, 
so  named  from  a  large  emigration  on  account  of 
financial  troubles  due  to  the  Napoleon  wars. 

Though  Guernsey  has  preserved  her  usages  for  a 
thousand  years  immutable,  the  end  of  their  long  do- 
minion is  approaching.  Less  than  another  century, 
perhaps  only  another  decade,  will  see  their  oblitera- 
tion. And  with  the  passing  of  the  old  there  will  like- 
wise be  a  passing  of  the  picturesque.  Glass  houses 
are  encroaching  upon  the  bleakness  of  the  coast, 

[58] 


Where  King  George  is  Duke  of  Normandy 

upon  the  hills  yellow  with  gorse,  upon  the  paths 
zigzagging  steeply  downward  to  the  sea.  Quarry- 
men  are  blasting  underneath  the  walls  of  ancient 
castles.  The  British  Parliament  has  begun  to  in- 
quire, with  curious  belatedness,  what  manner  of 
folk  these  are  who  claim  exemption  from  Parlia- 
mentary control  and  get  along  so  comfortably 
without  modern  individual  rights.  And  among  the 
inhabitants  themselves  there  are  numbers,  of  stone 
and  tomato  interests,  working  quietly  for  a  change; 
and,  indeed,  the  nature  of  the  rule  of  the  potent 
signiors  is  disconducive  to  wide  popularity  among 
men  who  have  lived  under  systems  different. 

And   so,    the   long   shadows   are   falling   and   the 
evening  of  Guernsey's  romance  draws  nigh. 


VI.    A    PENINSULA    OF    PATRONYMICS 

•A***        »* .      ETURNING     to     Cherbourg 

from  Guernsey,  it  might  have 
seemed  that  there  was  noth- 
ing to  do  but  go  on  to  Paris, 
with  possibly  a  stop  at  Caen 
or  Beauvais;  although  it  is 
seldom  that  the  tourist  stops 
even  there,  as  his  steamer- 
train  takes  him  on  a  stop- 

less  run  and  Cherbourg  itself  is 

but  a  landing  or  sailing  point. 
And,  so  far  as  Cherbourg  itself  is  concerned,  there 
is  little  to  interest  the  sightseer,  unless  he  cares 
to  become  acquainted  with  life  in  an  important 
provincial  city.  For  myself,  I  came  to  like  the 
people  there,  and  the  shops;  I  found  a  pleasure 
in  such  signs  as  "Perruquier"  and  "Chapeaux  et 
Casquettes";  and  in  a  peninsula  whose  greatest 
charm  is  in  its  reminders  of  England,  it  really 
pleased  me  to  find  a  reminder  of  America — only 
with  a  difference! — for  a  smiling  citizen,  asking 
me  for  the  time,  explained,  not  that  he  had  "left 
his  watch  with  his  uncle,"  but  " J'ai  porte  ma 
montre  chez  ma  tante" 

[60] 


A  Peninsula  of  Patronymics 

That  their  ways  and  customs  and  frugalities 
are  different  from  ours  is  a  never-ending  charm. 
One  day,  as  I  was  looking  out  over  the  harbor  at 
a  great  liner  that  had  just  steamed  stately  in,  I 
noticed  that  into  the  water,  from  a  point  quite 
near  me,  there  drove  a  little  cart,  crowded  with 
big  tin  cans,  and  that  these  the  driver  proceeded 
to  fill  with  sea-water,  and,  having  done  so,  drove 
leisurely  back  to  shore. 

I  wondered.  It  was  the  waterfront  of  a  city: 
a  land-locked,  breakwater-locked  bay;  the  water 
was  assuredly  not  clean;  but  it  was  evident  that 
I  was  not  looking  at  a  case  of  mere  lacteal  dilution; 
the  fact  that  salt  was  in  the  water  and  publicity 
in  the  view  shut  out  the  supposition  of  its  being  a 
Frenchman's  milky  way;  and  so  I  made  query  as 
to  what  it  really  was. 

"Oh,  that  is  only  a  baker's  cart,"  was  the  in- 
different reply,  familiarity  having  taken  off  the 
edge  of  possible  surprise  or  disapprobation. 

"And  do  other  bakers  do  the  same?" 

"Yes,  indeed." 

Salt  is  very  dear  in  France,  being  an  important 
source  of  governmental  revenue,  and  so  bakers 
carry  sea-water  to  their  bakeries  for  the  sake  of  the 
profit  in  thus  getting  salt  for  nothing. 

And  there  are  customs  more  romantic,  just  as 
interesting,  and  less  utilitarian.  When,  one  even- 
ing, I  met  a  veritable  Rembrandt  picture  on  a  lonely 

[61] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

street,  a  Night  Watch,  with  ten  or  a  dozen  soldiers, 
some  armed  with  guns,  and  the  others  like  police- 
men, hand-free  for  the  easy  seizure  of  offenders, 
I  felt  that  even  in  Cherbourg  one  may  step  back 
into  the  ways  of  the  distant  past,  and  especially 
did  I  feel  this  when  told  that  this  military  Watch 
patrols  the  streets  till  daylight,  in  supplement  to 
the  activities  of  the  few  real  policemen  of  the  town. 

But  in  the  country  round  Cherbourg  I  found  a 
greater  and  keener  pleasure.  I  knew  that  from 
the  peninsula  of  the  Cotentin,  on  which  Cherbourg 
is  situated,  came  many  of  the  best  of  the  soldiers 
of  William  the  Conqueror,  and  when  I  also  learned 
that  there  were  in  that  neighborhood  numerous 
little  ancient  places  still  bearing  names  made  famous 
in  English  history  or  inseparably  associated  with 
English  life  I  set  about  discovering  some  of  them. 
And  it  was  a  fascinating  quest.  Humble  places, 
too,  all  of  them,  and  this  added  to  the  interest. 
Cherbourg  itself,  the  only  important  place  of  the 
Cotentin,  figured  in  the  Conquest  with  a  Count  of 
Cherbourg,  but,  unlike  many  of  the  humbler  men, 
he  left  no  mark  on  English  history,  although  the 
name  itself,  of  Cherbourg,  is  understood  to  be, 
perpetuated  in  the  English  Scarborough. 

In  merely  going  along  the  roads  of  this  region 
there  is  fascination,  for  over  these  very  roads  many 
of  the  conquerors  of  England  used  to  walk  or  ride, 
so  many  centuries  ago;  and  upon  this  water  they 

[62] 


A  Peninsula  of  Patronymics 

used  to  sail,  those  men — not  the  "English"  Channel, 
but  merely  La  Manche,  "the"  Channel;  for  in 
repudiating  the  arrogance  of  "English"  there  had 
not  been  shown  the  opposing  arrogance  of  "  French." 
I  have  seen,  from  the  Norman  shore,  the  Channel 
all  a  level  stretch  of  glorious  greens  and  blues, 
with  the  blue  sky  overhead  and  the  white  forts 
looking  out  over  the  water;  I  have  seen  it  roar- 
ing tumultuously  against  the  rocks  and  dashing 
up  great  clouds  of  spray;  I  have  seen  a  fleet  of 
French  warships  there  and  heard  the  bugle  calls 
come  over  the  water;  and  always  I  have  thought 
that  this  is  the  sea  upon  which  William  the  Con- 
queror looked,  this  the  sea  across  which  he  sailed 
with  his  many  thousands  of  men,  and  his  vast 
number  of  little  boats,  and  his  own  particular 
ship,  Spanish-named  the  Mora;  though  why  a 
man  so  intensely  Norman  in  spirit  and  so  watch- 
ful of  signs  and  omens  should  have  chosen  a  Spanish 
name  for  the  flagship  of  his  expedition  is  most 
curious.  I  have  thought  that  upon  these  rocks 
the  wives  and  children  of  the  men  of  the  Cotentin 
stood  to  see  the  men  sail  away  to  the  gathering 
place  for  the  English  expedition,  and  have  won- 
dered what  they  thought.  And  what  they  cer- 
tainly did  not  think  was  that  humble  names  of 
the  Cotentin  should  come  to  mighty  prominence 
in  the  unknown  land;  that  their  local  names  should 
become  common  family  cognomens  of  England. 

[63] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

From  the  Cotentin  went  Percys  and  Grevilles, 
here  were  Devereux,  Tankervil,  Talbot,  Mortimer, 
here  were  Kirk  and  Fleming  and  Mowbray,  Neville 
and  Pierrepont  and  Hay,  here  was  Vernon,  here 
were  Bedfords,  here  was  Vere,  here  were  St.  John 
and  St.  Clair  (no  wonder  they  are  still  pronounced, 
in  England,  Sinjen  and  Sinkler!),  here  were  Beau- 
monts  and  Montagues,  and  from  here  went  the  Bruce. 

It  is  fascinating  to  find,  too,  that  in  the  Cotentin 
there  are  both  a  Tessy  and  an  Urberville,  and  that  a 
Hardy  (Hardi)  figured  prominently  in  one  of  the 
early  French  battles  of  the  great  Conqueror.  And 
I  have  met  a  Tess,  looking  as  she  is  described  in 
the  novel,  and  driving,  as  Tess  drove,  in  a  high- 
wheeled  cart  in  the  dim  light  of  just  before  the 
sunrise. 

To  learn  and  see  what  I  wished  to  learn  and 
see,  to  seek  out  the  places  of  origin  of  some  of  the 
Norman-English  names,  I  did  not  rely  upon  the 
railroad.  First  of  all,  I  aimed  to  go  to  the  very 
point  of  the  peninsula;  still  called,  by  the  French 
themselves,  the  loneliest  and  least  frequented  part 
of  all  France!  And  I  found  that  the  best  way  to 
get  there  was  by  diligence.  Now,  by  far  the  greater 
number  of  Americans  never  imagine  that  the  dili- 
gence, for  practical  travel  in  Europe,  still  exists; 
but  in  quite  a  number  of  places  I  have  found,  in 
seeking  out  the  particularly  picturesque,  that  the 
local  diligence  may  be  a  most  convenient  aid. 


A  Peninsula  of  Patronymics 

And  so  I  took  a  dingy  diminutive  diligence, 
early  one  morning,  out  from  Cherbourg.  It  was 
a  raw  and  chilly  morning,  and  there  was  a  drizzly 
rain,  and  it  was  very,  very  early.  In  fact,  travel  in 
Normandy  is  apt  to  be  travail!  Local  trains  come 
in  before  dawn,  and  the  passengers,  after  having 
sat  and  jerkily  dozed  for  hours  in  uncomfortably 
small  compartments,  may  have  to  continue  their 
journey  in  an  uncomfortably  small  diligence. 

The  one  that  I  took  in  beginning  my  expedition 
of  discovery  was  certainly  of  small  enough  dimen- 
sions to  be  uncomfortable,  for  it  was  so  low  that 
one  had  to  stoop,  and  so  narrow  that  knees  were  an 
incubus,  and  there  was  such  an  absence  of  ventila- 
tion as  almost  to  put  me  out  beside  the  driver  in 
spite  of  the  chilling  rain.  Always,  on  a  diligence, 
except  when  there  is  a  rainy  reason,  I  secure  the 
seat  beside  the  driver,  to  have  fresh  air,  and  to  see 
the  country,  and  to  get  information  from  the  man 
who  can  tell  you  so  many  things  you  want  to  know. 
But  this  was  a  day  for  an  exception,  and  inside  I 
went;  and  found  that  my  only  companions  were  to 
be  a  man  of  seventy  and  a  shyly  pretty  girl  of 
seventeen;  and  with  these,  the  diligence  ride,  far 
from  being  uncomfortable,  was  a  constant  pleasure. 

The  man  was  simple-hearted  and  delightful.  He 
spoke  to  me  courteously  as  a  stranger.  Then  his 
face  became  aglow  with  communicable  news.  :<  The 
great  Lafayette  went  across  the  ocean  to  help 

[653 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

America!"  he  said;  and  he  became  almost  inarticu- 
late with  joy  when  he  realized  that  I  had  under- 
stood him  and  when  I  replied  that  Lafayette  was 
the  friend  of  Washington;  for,  peasant  though  he 
was,  he  had  heard  of  Washington.  His  genial  old 
face  beamed  as  he  turned  to  the  girl.  "He  under- 
stands me!"  he  said,  exultantly. 

Then  he  essayed  again:  "It  was,  monsieur,  a 
Frenchman  who  made  a  great  statue  for  the  harbor 
of  America,"  he  said,  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  me, 
eagerly  intent,  to  see  if  again  I  comprehended. 
And  when  I  told  him  that  I  had  but  recently  seen 
the  Statue  of  Liberty,  and  tried  to  give  him  some 
idea  of  its  appearance,  and  when,  following  this,  I 
mentioned  that  Bartholdi  had  also  made  another 
statue  for  New  York,  and  that  it  was  the  statue  of 
Lafayette,  the  friend  of  Washington,  he  could  only 
look  from  the  girl  to  myself  and  myself  to  the  girl 
with  an  awed  pleasure  that  it  was  a  delight  to  behold. 

Then  he  took  from  his  pocket  his  precious  pocket- 
piece;  this,  he  said,  I,  his  friend  from  America,  must 
accept  from  him;  and  with  real  dignity  he  offered 
it  to  me:  a  copper  coin  of  Louis  XVI,  of  1792,  the 
year  of  the  king's  captivity  and  the  abolition  of 
royalty. 

"And  this,"  said  the  pretty  girl,  blushing,  "mon- 
sieur I'Americain  will  surely  accept  from  me  as  a 
memento";  and  she  shyly  gave  me  a  silver  coin  of 
Napoleon,  of  the  time  of  the  Empire. 

[66] 


A  Peninsula  of  Patronymics 

It  was  literally  an  embarrassment  of  riches;  I 
certainly  did  not  wish  to  take  their  prized  pocket- 
pieces,  yet  they  both — they  were  not  father  and 
daughter,  but  were  strangers  to  each  other — insisted 
that  they  would  be  grieved  if  I  did  not;  "desolated" 
was  the  old  man's  word. 

It  was  a  delightful  drive,  and  none  of  us  minded 
the  stuffy  chill  of  the  air,  the  windows  that  could 
not  be  opened,  the  slanting  rain  that  drove  drearily 
down;  for  we  talked  together,  .they  of  Normandy 
and  I  of  America,  with  friendly  laughter  when  there 
was  halting  or  misunderstanding  and  with  patience 
in  picking  out  meanings;  and  somehow  we  learned 
much  of  one  another's  lives,  surroundings  and 
thoughts. 

For  one  of  the  things  that  a  traveler  should  early 
learn  is  as  much  of  the  language  of  the  country  he 
is  visiting  as  possible.  But  it  is  still  more  import- 
ant that  he  should  realize  that  with  but  little 
knowledge  of  a  language  he  can,  if  he  have  confi- 
dence and  readiness,  make  himself  understood. 
No  European  is  ever  rude  or  surprised  at  a  visitor's 
limited  knowledge  of  his  language.  In  America 
foreigners  are  looked  upon  as  subjects  of  barely 
tolerant  amusement  if  they  do  not  pronounce 
every  word  correctly,  but  when  Americans  go 
abroad  their  shortcomings  as  to  language  are  not 
in  turn  viewed  critically,  and  foreigners  are  quick 
at  understanding.  Manage  to  say  half  that  you 

[67] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

mean  and  they  will  guess  correctly  at  the  other 
half.  Always  have  with  you  a  dictionary  of  the 
language — French,  Italian,  German,  according  to 
the  country  you  are  in — a  double  dictionary,  with 
words  in  English  for  one  half,  and  words  in  the 
foreign  tongue  for  the  other.  Then  when  you 
come  to  a  halt  for  a  word,  turn  to  the  dictionary; 
or,  when  your  interlocutor  cannot  give  a  word  that 
you  understand,  show  the  dictionary  and  have  him 
or  her  point  out  the  word,  and  then  you  will  read 
its  English  meaning.  It  is  amazing  what  progress 
you  can  make,  what  a  range  of  subjects  you  can 
discuss. 

That  dripping  day,  as  we  rode  out  toward  the 
end  of  the  peninsula,  passing  rain-swept  villages 
and  gray-misted  fields,  we  learned  how  much  a 
little  friendliness  may  brighten  dull  hours,  and  at 
Beaumont,  with  the  sun  coming  out  and  the  clouds 
breaking  away  and  the  rain  ceasing,  we  parted  like 
old  friends. 

It  was  at  Beaumont  that  our  trip  ended;  a  name 
sufficiently  Anglicized  in  the  course  of  the  cen- 
turies, while  at  the  same  time  it  has  remained  a 
family  name  in  France.  A  one-streeted  old  town 
of  white-shuttered  gray  houses  is  Beaumont,  with 
an  interesting  ancient  church,  with  oddly  round- 
topped  tower,  and  an  inn  where  the  service  was 
delightfully  simple  and  old-fashioned;  where  a  line 
of  candlesticks,  remindful  that  the  day  of  primi- 

[68] 


A  BYWAY  IN  A  NORMAN  TOWN 


progress 


0  ware 

nuch    a 
d  at 

parted 

ame 
of   the 

1  old 


der 

Y  °f  P- 


A  Peninsula  of  Patronymics 

tive  lighting  has  not  yet  ended,  stood  on  a  shelf 
in  the  sitting  room  for  the  use  of  guests  setting 
bedward,  and  where,  in  short,  as  the  inn-sign  had 
it,  there  was  "  Loge  a  Pied  et  a  Cheval^  lodging  for 
foot  and  horse;  this  sign  pleasantly  alternating,  in 
the  Cotentin,  with  "Herbage  les  Betes  de  Passage" 
— although,  except  for  the  diligence  horses,  there 
are  few  "beasts  of  passage"  ever  seen  in  this  par- 
ticular corner  of  the  peninsula. 

I  noticed  when  my  luncheon  was  served  that 
there  were  still  in  use  in  the  inn,  along  with  more 
modern  dishes,  some  pieces  of  old-time  copper 
lustre.  The  landlady  did  not  prize  them.  They 
were  of  English  make,  did  I  say?  She  had  not 
known;  she  knew  only  that  they  were  from  her 
mother;  and  so,  at  a  very  moderate  cost,  I  carried 
away  with  me  the  few  pieces  still  unbroken  (a 
sugar-bowl,  a  jug,  a  cup  and  saucer),  to  add  to  my 
china  collection  at  home;  for  the  collector  must 
always  be  ready  to  discover  what  he  wishes  even 
in  an  unexpected  place — and  must  also  be  watch- 
ful against  imitation  pieces.  But  one  need  not 
fear  imitations  in  regions  unvisited  even  by  French- 
men themselves,  and  especially  when  the  price  is 
less  than  that  for  which  imitation  pieces  are  made. 
And  perhaps  I  should  add  here,  for  it  is  in  the  line 
of  what  the  visitor  to  the  unvisited  may  find,  that 
at  other  points  in  the  Cotentin  I  acquired  some 
specimens  of  another  kind  of  pottery,  some  bowls 

[69] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

of  a  rare  Norman  ware  in  dullish-white  and  reddish- 
brown. 

Beaumont  is  in  the  midst  of  great  bleakness  and 
loneliness,  and  not  far  away,  and  reached  by  a 
rough  and  winding  road,  leading  through  a  suc- 
cession of  "landes"  as  they  are  termed,  is  Greville; 
these  landes  being  stretches  of  bleak  moorland 
thick-grown  with  a  prickly  and  yellow-flowered 
shrub  that  grows  freely  in  the  poor  soil  and  is  util- 
ized as  fuel  by  the  people  and  especially  by  the 
bakers! — a  class,  as  will  be  noticed,  who  have  even 
more  than  the  usual  Norman  share  of  thrift. 

Most  of  the  Cotentin  is  of  lush  richness  of  soil 
and  growth,  with  little  fields  where  fat,  sleek  cattle 
graze,  but  this  particular  section  is  mostly  desolate, 
and  the  principal  industry  is  fishing,  though  even 
here  there  are  fields  where  cattle  may  be  seen  and 
where  the  vachlre,  the  cow-girl,  goes  with  her  easy 
stride  with  the  great  brass  jug,  delectable  of  shape, 
perched,  full  of  milk,  upon  her  shoulder;  or  one  may 
see  her,  out  in  the  field,  milking  a  cow  right  into 
this  narrow-necked  jug,  such  being  the  custom  of 
the  country. 

Greville  not  only  bears  a  name  that  has  become 
well  known  in  England,  but  has  a  still  greater  dis- 
tinction, in  that  it  was  the  birthplace  of  the  mighty 
Millet,  the  peasant-born  painter  of  peasants.  And 
there  is  a  monument  to  him  here;  an  unheroic, 
inartistic  figure  of  a  man,  sitting  gingerly  upon 

[70] 


A  Peninsula  of  Patronymics 

a  leafy  seat  as  if  there  were  thorns  among  the 
leaves. 

Out  in  the  middle  of  a  bare  field,  and  then  in 
another  and  another,  I  noticed  stone  posts,  and 
they  looked  so  interesting  and  old,  discolored  as 
they  were  by  the  weather  of  centuries — for  every- 
thing is  remindful  of  centuries  here! — that  my  mind 
went  at  once  to  possibilities  Druidical  or  Roman. 
"But  no,  monsieur;  they  are  for  the  cattle,  they; 
for  the  cattle  to  scratch  against;  and  when  they 
scratch  themselves  with  freedom,  monsieur,  with 
an  energy,  we  say  that  it  will  rain.  And  when  rain 
is  coming,  often  the  beasts  will  go  to  a  corner  of 
the  field  and  they  will  turn  their  heads  away  from 
the  direction  in  which  the  rain  is  to  come,  and  we 
say  that  the  rain  will  come  in  from  the  Manche  or 
that  it  will  be  a  landward  rain." 

Out  toward  either  of  the  principal  points  of  the 
peninsula,  the  Nez  de  Jobourg  or  the  Cap  de  la 
Hague,  the  bleakness  of  the  landscape  increases,  and 
the  diminutive  fishing  hamlets  are  set  in  a  great  bare 
shore;  but  the  fishing  folk,  men  and  women  alike, 
with  their  curved  fish-baskets  fastened  at  their 
waists,  or  their  fish-hampers  standing  ready  for  a 
trip,  are  friendly  and  gossipy  and  companionable, 
ready  for  a  smile  or  a  pleasant  word,  as  if  in  instinct- 
ive defense  against  the  dreariness  that  surrounds 
them. 

One  must  not  always  expect  to  find  names  spelled 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

in  Normandy  precisely  as  they  are  spelled  in  Eng- 
land; one  must  seek  for  Kirk  in  Querqueville,  for 
example;  but  often  the  names  are  the  same  or 
almost  the  same.  And  I  shall  not  describe  many 
places  in  detail,  for  over  and  over  it  would  be  but 
to  describe  a  tiny  huddled  town  or  a  shapeless  ruin. 
But  there  comes  with  particular  insistence  the 
pleasant  memory  of  Becquet,  a  fishing  village  on 
the  shore  not  far  from  Cherbourg. 

Thomas  a  Becket  was  half  Saracen,  for  his  father, 
a  Crusader,  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  daughter  of 
the  Emir  of  Palestine,  and  she  had  loved  him  in 
return.  But  they  were  separated,  as  he  thought 
hopelessly,  for  she  was  placed  under  close  restraint, 
while,  as  for  him,  sickness  and  wounds  sent  him 
back  to  England  an  unhappy  man.  But  the  girl 
escaped,  and  set  out  for  England,  seeking  him, 
knowing  nothing  but  his  first  name,  Gilbert,  and  the 
name  of  "London";  and  she  found  him! 

The  fiery-tempered  Archbishop  of  Canterbury 
was  their  son;  of  partial  Saxon  descent,  some  have 
said,  but  his  name  was  Norman,  as  was  his  fierce 
earnestness.  Norman,  with  Saracen  and  Saxon 
mixed — no  wonder  he  ruled  England  and  that  his 
violent  death  stirred  the  world  for  centuries! 

So  it  was  with  peculiar  interest  that  I  went  to 
Becquet;  and  I  was  none  the  less  interested  that  I 
found  it  but  a  few  houses,  a  clustered  conglomerate 
of  weather-grayed  stone,  huddling  on  the  water- 

[72] 


A  Peninsula  of  Patronymics 

side  where  the  surf  comes  rolling  magnificently  in 
over  rocks  and  jagged  reefs.  A  protecting  wall  of 
huge-blocked  stone  shelters  the  harbor,  which  is 
just  big  enough  for  a  few  fishing  boats,  and  that 
some  of  the  huge  stones  have  been  tumbled  and 
displaced  tells  vividly  of  the  storms  that  come 
whirling  against  this  coast. 

I  sat  down  at  a  table  in  front  of  the  fishers'  inn, 
and  found  that  there,  as  everywhere  in  Normandy, 
the  cooking  was  palatable — a  trait  the  Normans 
omitted  to  take  to  England  with  the  Conqueror! — 
and  beside  me,  at  another  table,  were  seated  a  couple 
of  lovers,  as  devoted  to  each  other  as  were  the 
father  of  Thomas  and  the  Saracen  girl,  though  my 
couple  were  but  the  humblest  of  fisher  folk.  Lovers 
they,  although  married  for  probably  fifty  years! — 
both  of  them  myriad  wrinkled,  she  white-capped 
and  he  blue-bloused,  he  as  devoted  as  a  youth,  she 
as  affectionate  as  a  girl,  and  both  with  the  shining 
eyes  of  love. 

They  carried  their  own  luncheon — dry  bread 
and  snails — and  each  grasped  firmly  in  the  right 
hand  the  working  knife  that  is  the  Norman  peasant's 
knife  and  fork  and  spoon.  And  they  ordered  cognac 
and  coffee,  and  the  woman  laughed  and  put  half 
her  cognac  into  her  own  coffee  and  the  other  half 
into  the  coffee  of  her  husband,  and  their  cheerful 
words,  their  cheerful  happiness,  their  unfeigned 
and  simple  pleasure  in  each  other's  company 

[73] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

were  good  to  see:  Intently  they  watched  a  little 
girl,  a  stranger  to  them,  but  full  of  interest  none 
the  less — it  was  long  since  they  had  had  little  chil- 
dren of  their  own — as  she  played  a  solitary  little 
game  of  hop-scotch  with  a  flat  pebble  which  she 
skipped  through  mazes  marked  upon  the  ground. 
Few  things  are  older  than  the  games  of  child- 
hood, and  I  did  not  doubt  that  little  Norman  girls 
played  solitary  hop-scotch  just  like  this  centuries 
ago. 

It  was  Easter  Monday,  and  the  old  couple  were 
bent  on  enjoying  the  holiday  to  the  utmost.  I 
noticed  that  they  whispered  together,  he  proposing 
something  with  the  boldness  that  goes  with  a  mighty 
suggestion,  she  shyly  protesting,  urging  doubt,  yet 
with  eyes  aglow  with  happiness  that  her  husband 
should  wish  to  do  so  great  a  thing!  And  I  saw  that 
he  put  aside,  with  smiling  triumph,  the  remon- 
strance that  could  not  veil  her  longing  for  the  treat, 
and  I  heard  him  boldly  order  it — a  flask  of  white 
wine;  not  an  expensive  treat,  as  rated  by  the  world; 
it  cost  less  than  a  franc;  and  yet  it  was  clearly  such 
a  momentous  and  unusual  thing  for  them  to  do 
with  their  slender  pocketbook. 

It  was  the  man  who  took  the  responsibility  and 
gave  the  order,  but  it  was  the  woman  who  paid. 
Indeed,  it  is  the  woman  who  pays — but  not  in  the 
ancient  proverbial  sense — throughout  Normandy, 
although  at  the  same  time  she  is  apparently  and 

[74] 


A  Peninsula  of  Patronymics 

ostensibly  the  weaker  half  of  creation.  For  it  is  the 
woman  who  carries  the  purse. 

Women  in  Normandy  are  frankly  the  inferiors, 
and  as  frankly  accept  the  position — yet  somehow 
they  manage  to  manage  things!  They  are  often 
railway  ticket  agents,  they  are  often  flagmen— 
flagwomen! — at  crossings,  and  may  be  seen,  with 
apron  clean  and  hair  carefully  brushed,  proudly 
holding  the  flag  while  the  train  passes  by.  Often 
you  will  see  women  driving  the  market  carts;  and, 
following  the  world-wide  tendency,  if  a  woman  is 
alone  upon  the  seat  she  sits  squarely  in  the  middle, 
instead  of,  like  a  man,  at  one  side.  Women  work 
in  the  fields;  they  help  to  handle  and  clean  the  fish 
when  the  boats  come  in.  I  have  seen  women — not 
a  pretty  sight — working  as  street  cleaners  in  Cher- 
bourg in  a  wet  and  chilly  dawn. 

And  always  the  peasant  woman  carries  the  purse; 
when  in  a  shop  with  her  husband,  as  with  the  old 
couple  at  the  inn,  it  is  she  who  pays — and  she  who 
has  the  last  word!  The  peasant  women,  the  farmer 
women,  look  happy,  doubtless  are  happy,  in  spite 
of  the  inferiority  of  which  they  have  so  evidently 
made  essential  mastery. 

There  were  ancient  words  in  Normandy,  other 
than  names,  that  are  familiar  in  England,  and  it 
was  like  meeting  old  friends  to  come  upon  some 
that  figure  freely  in  the  old-time  novels.  "Gam- 
mon" is  here;  although,  of  course,  it  is  but  "jam- 

[75] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

bon";  and  the  rolling  "gramercy"  comes  readily 
in  recognition  of  special  kindness.  I  have  known  a 
tip  of  six  cents  for  a  trifling  service,  to  fetch  it,  and 
once,  when  a  young  man  specially  obliged  me  and 
a  tip  of  a  franc  was  his  meed,  there  came  such  a 
splendid  "Gramercy!"  with  long-prolonged  ac- 
cent on  the  first  syllable,  as  could  scarcely  have  been 
expected  had  the  tip  been  a  Napoleon. 

Although  the  characteristic  Norman  tempera- 
ment is  one  that  displays  hospitality,  and  especially, 
I  take  it,  to  Americans,  the  people  do  not,  as  a 
rule,  open  their  hearts  to  strangers;  I  was  fortunate 
in  meeting  with  unusual  cordiality,  and  always, 
beneath  the  cordiality,  there  could  be  discerned  the 
basic  sternness,  the  aloofness,  of  an  all-conquering 
race;  and  also  a  not  infrequent  hardness  as  well  as 
hardiness.  On  the  whole,  they  suggest  fortiter  in  re 
rather  than  the  anciently  companioned  phrase  of 
suaviter  in  modol 

There  is  little  of  dancing,  little  of  music;  sheep 
and  cattle  are  often  cruelly  hobbled,  and  the  dogs 
of  Normandy  are  a  cowed  race,  with  too  many  of 
them  chained.  Yet  it  is  no  contradiction  to  say, 
in  spite  of  this,  that,  on  the  whole,  they  are  a  kindly 
race;  I  merely  set  down  that  they  can  be  hard  as 
well  as  kind.  And  as  to  hardiness,  no  further  proof 
is  needed  than  that  it  is  the  custom  to  take  new- 
born babies  to  church  for  baptism  when  they  are 
less  than  a  day  old;  when,  indeed,  they  may  have 

[76] 


A  Peninsula  of  Patronymics 

had  but  three  or  four  hours  of  Ijfe! — the  father 
walking  exultant  by  the  side  of  the  bonne,  whose 
face  is  one  broad  smile  above  her  white-clad  burden — 
and  the  day  perhaps  a  day  of  drizzling  cold.  No 
marvel  that  Europe  was  at  the  mercy  of  the  Nor- 
mans— no  wonder  the  ancient  Norman  prayer  ran: 
"O  Lord,  I  do  not  ask  you  to  favor  me  with  good 
things,  but  only  to  tell  me  where  they  are,  so  that 
I  may  go  and  get  them  myself." 

And  the  thought  comes  of  that  day  in  the  English 
Parliament  less  than  a  dozen  years  ago  when  the 
First  Lord  of  the  Treasury  rose  to  demand  that 
the  custom  of  using  the  Norman  tongue  by  the 
King  of  England,  in  approving  or  rejecting  a  law, 
be  forever  ended,  whereupon  the  Prime  Minister 
replied  that  it  was  impossible  to  do  away  with  a 
custom  so  based  upon  historical  tradition.  How 
the  Norman  still  rules! 

An  independent  folk  are  those  of  the  Cotentin, 
and  of  a  stern  directness.  "Is  a  man  poor?"  said  a 
farmer  to  me  one  day.  "Then  it  is  because  he  will 
not  work!  A  man  who  will  work  can  live."  And, 
after  all,  it  is  a  farming,  grazing,  fishing  country, 
full,  therefore,  of  opportunity.  It  is  a  region  where 
most  of  the  people,  though  far  from  what  may  be 
called  independently  rich,  are  at  least  in  the  highly 
desirable  condition  of  being  independently  poor. 
Here  and  there  is  a  chateau,  towered  conically, 
avenued  magnificently,  with  spacious  grounds,  en- 

[77] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

vironingly  walled,  but  the  typical  homes  of  the 
countryside  are  the  farmhouse  and  the  cottage.  It 
cannot  be  said  that  the  richest  is  poor,  but  the 
other  half  of  the  familiar  couplet  is  possibly  enough 
true,  that  the  poorest  may  live  in  abundance. 

It  was  in  a  different  direction  from  the  coastwise 
points,  in  a  rich  country  inland  from  Cherbourg, 
that  I  came  upon  the  original  home  of  the  Mon- 
tagues, or  Montaigu,  as  it  is  here  spelled;  a  name 
famous  in  English  history  and  associations,  yet 
here  represented  by  a  tiny  church,  an  ancient  grave- 
yard, a  petty  village,  and  a  few  huge  stones  scat- 
tered and  almost  buried  in  the  soil,  marking  where 
stood  the  ancient  castle  of  the  Montaigus;  all  set 
upon  a  low-lying  hill. 

Small  though  the  church  is,  it  has  at  least  the 
dignity  of  age,  and  it  stands  among  beech  trees 
that  are  gnarled  and  twisted  and  moss-grown  by 
time.  The  interior  of  the  church,  never  impressive 
or  beautiful,  has  been  whitewashed  into  utter  com- 
monplaceness,  save  for  the  interest  which  a  few  old 
inscriptions  give  and  that  which  goes  with  any 
ancient  building  in  this  ancient  land.  The  neg- 
lected graveyard,  with  its  stone  wall  grayed  and 
greened  with  mosses — the  mosses  so  thick  that 
one  can  scarcely  see  that  there  r  the  wall  beneath 
— gives  an  unmistakable  impression  of  great  an- 
tiquity, even  though  there  is  no  very  ancient  in- 
scription legible.  In  the  center  of  the  graveyard 

[78] 


A  VILLAGE  OF  THE  COTENTIN 


Old  } 


pelled;  a  name 
an  ancient  g 


here 


own  by 

';'f*r   pom— 


land. 


-! 


A  Peninsula  of  Patronymics 

stands  a  squared-in  vault,  some  fifteen  feet  by 
twelve  and  a  trifle  over  six  feet  high;  a  stone-walled 
vault,  that  has  always  been  without  door  or  window, 
always  open  to  the  sky,  without  a  roof.  A  couple  of 
stepping  stones,  set  into  one  side  and  a  few  inches 
projective,  are  the  means  of  reaching  the  top  of 
the  wall.  Erect  upon  one  corner  stands  a  canonical 
Chrysostom  in  stone,  three  feet  in  height;  at  an- 
other corner  stands  a  plainer  saint  with  a  book;  at 
another  is  Peter  with  his  keys;  and  the  fourth  cor- 
nered saint  has  vanished  into  that  limbo  into  which 
all,  whether  saints  or  sinners  and  of  flesh  or  stone, 
in  time  must  go. 

Down  at  the  bottom  of  the  walled-in  space  I  saw 
vines  and  moss  growing  in  lush  lavishness;  and  the 
cause  was  evident,  for  fully  twenty  skulls  lay  whit- 
ened there;  and  each  of  those  that  was  turned 
upward  had  upon  it  that  awful  skull's  grin,  which 
seems  to  find  such  humor  in  the  joke  of  Death. 
It  was  a  grisly  thing  to  come  upon;  and  that  I  was 
alone,  and  that  a  drenching  rain  was  sending  drench- 
ing streams  down  through  the  black  and  ancient 
trees  upon  the  ancient  stones  and  into  this  dismal 
vault,  added  to  the  grisliness  of  it  all. 

The  grim  receptacle,  evidently  replacing  an  ear- 
lier one,  bears  an  inscription  two  centuries  old, 
asking  for  prayers  for  the  soul  of  the  man  who 
built  it.  It  has  not  been  used  in  recent  years; 
the  ancient  custom  has  fallen  into  abeyance;  the 

[79] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

priest  was  absent,  and  a  few  peasants  from  whom  I 
asked  for  information  could  only  shake  their  heads. 
"It  was,  monsieur,  that  bodies  were  put  there": 
that  was  all,  and  how  and  why  the  custom  origin- 
ated, and  why  the  skulls  and  bones  were  not  buried 
when  the  custom  ended,  they  could  not  even  guess. 
I  did  not  follow  up  the  quest;  it  was  really  more 
effective,  more  impressive,  as  an  uncanny  thing 
come  upon  with  entire  unexpectedness  and  left 
entirely  unexplained. 

Among  the  picturesque  customs  of  Normandy 
there  is  one  that  should  specially  be  considered 
by  any  who  look  into  the  influence  of  one  side  of 
the  Channel  upon  the  other,  for  this  custom,  though 
it  has  nothing  to  do  directly  with  English  names, 
has  at  least  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the  most  prom- 
inent of  all  Englishmen — the  King  himself.  It 
is  a  custom  which  is  typical  of  not  only  Normandy, 
but  of  all  of  France  and  of  Italy,  yet,  strangely 
enough,  it  never  obtained  a  hold  in  England,  the 
country  that  it  has  most  of  all  influenced.  And  it 
is  the  custom  of  washing  clothes. 

For  the  washtubs  for  the  clothes  of  Normandy 
are,  just  as  they  were  before  the  Conquest,  the 
running  streams,  or  little  slab-lined  pools  at  their 
edges;  and  that  the  drainage  of  a  village  or  of 
many  villages  is  mingled  with  the  water  has  never 
been  held  to  be  a  disadvantage.  The  women  and 
girls  kneel  confabulatively,  on  rows  of  stones  laid 

[80] 


A  Peninsula  of  Patronymics 

just  in  the  current  of  the  stream,  or  around  the 
more  popular  and  unsanitary  pools.  Washing 
clothes  is  a  sociable,  gregarious,  conversational 
rite.  Seldom  have  I  seen  a  woman  washing  alone. 
The  cleaning  of  the  clothes  of  Normandy  seems 
to  demand  companionship,  and  it  is  a  pretty  sound 
to  hear  the  humming  buzz  of  the  talk  and  laughter, 
and  it  is  a  pretty  sight  tp  see  the  dark  hair  and 
flashing  eyes,  above  the  red  or  purple  waists,  bend- 
ing up  and  down  as  the  clothes  are  dipped  and 
pounded  and  wrung.  Of  course,  it  is  hard  upon 
the  clothes  to  beat  them  so  vigorously  upon  rocks, 
but  one  must  have  his  clothes  washed  in  this  way 
or  not  at  all.  And  the  only  unpicturesque  feature 
is  the  wheeling  of  the  clothes  home,  for  it  is  hard 
for  a  woman  to  look  picturesque  when  pushing 
before  her  a  loaded  wheelbarrow. 

The  father  of  William  of  Normandy  looked  down 
from  his  castle  window  one  day  on  a  line  of  wash- 
ers by  the  streamside,  and  his  fancy  was  fascinated 
by  the  peculiar  grace  and  beauty  of  one  of  them,  a 
young  girl  of  humble  parentage.  He  ordered  her 
up  into  the  castle,  such  being  among  the  pleasant 
prerogatives  of  a  duke,  and  she  became  the  mother 
of  William  the  Conqueror.  There  is  wonder  and 
irony  in  it,  there  is  curious  commentary  upon  sup- 
posed standards,  for  the  long  line  of  British  sover- 
eigns, and  the  present  British  sovereign  himself, 
have  depended  for  their  place  in  life,  and  their 

[81] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

right  of  succession,  upon  unlegalized  love  for  a 
peasant  girl  who  pounded  clothes  upon  a  stone 
beside  a  Norman  stream! 


VII.  THE  NORMAN  HOME  OF  THE  BRUCE 


^  HE  name  of  Bruce  is  so  in- 
timately, so  particularly,  so 
inseparably  associated  with  Scot- 
land that  it  is  scarcely  possible 
to  think  of  it  as  ever  having  been 
anything  but  Scotch.  No  other 
stands  so  markedly  for  antago- 
nism to  Norman-English  things. 
The  name  of  Bruce  is  represen- 
tative of  Scotland.  Yet  the  Bruces 
were  really  Norman,  and  here  in 
the  Cotentin  is  the  place  from 
which  they  came.  A  Robert  Bruce 
crossed  with  William  to  the  Conquest,  and  was 
granted  lands  in  Yorkshire.  A  later  Bruce  became  a 
friend  of  King  David  of  Scotland  and  was  by  him 
given  Scottish  possessions.  The  father  of  the  great- 
est of  all  Bruces  was  a  friend  of  Edward  the  First. 
That  greatest  of  the  Bruces  was  also,  like  his  father, 
a  friend  of  King  Edward,  and  a  trusted  adviser, 
and  long  wavered  between  the  Scotch  and  English 
sides.  Indeed,  it  was  only  a  sort  of  belated  com- 
prehension of  his  practical  interests  that  made 
him  finally  throw  in  his  lot  with  Scotland. 

[83] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

And  here  in  Normandy  is  the  village  of  Bruce; 
and  that  it  was  the  birthplace  of  such  a  mighty 
line  makes  it  of  fascinating  charm.  But  the  finding 
of  the  village  was  not  easy,  for  it  was  unbaedekered, 
and  is  spelled,  quite  unexpectedly,  "Brix";  and  even 
after  discovering  the  village  the  finding  of  the 
remains  of  the  Bruce  castle  was  also  matter  of  diffi- 
culty. In  fact,  it  occurred  to  me  that  if  the  enemies 
of  the  early  Bruces  had  half  the  difficulty  in  finding 
their  stronghold  that  I  experienced,  they  were  pretty 
safe  from  intrusion,  excejpt  from  the  persevering! 

I  found  Brix  in  the  course  of  some  drives  that  I 
took  from  the  town  of  Valognes — a  town  that  is 
reached  by  a  short  railway  ride  from  Cherbourg. 

I  chose  Valognes  because  the  map  showed  it  to 
be  a  good  starting-point  for  drives,  but  perhaps  its 
close  association  with  William  the  Conqueror  had 
something  to  do  with  it,  too,  for  William,  some  years 
before  the  battle  of  Hastings,  was  near  Valognes 
when  he  received  news  of  an  uprising  that  had  his 
own  capture  as  its  aim,  whereupon  his  court  fool 
advised  him  to  forget  his  dignity  and  flee,  and  he 
"took  a  fool's  advice" — a  phrase  that  has  remained 
colloquially  in  the  English  language — and  barely 
escaped  with  his  life.  And  it  is  among  the  many 
ironic  facts  of  history  that  William  would  never 
have  lived  to  be  a  Conqueror  had  it  not  been  for  the 
prompt  urgency  of  a  fool! 

Valognes  is  itself  a  typical,  pleasant  spot,  with  an 

[84] 


The  Norman  Home  of  the  Bruce   • 

old  church,  an  old  marketplace,  surrounded  by 
houses  not  so  old,  and  some  really  ancient  houses 
tucked  away  along  the  course  of  a  brook  that  goes 
deviously,  out  of  sight  and  in  sight  alternately, 
under  streets,  or  between  the  back  doors  of  these 
ancient  structures,  lapping  gravely  against  moss- 
grown  steps.  So  very  much  is  moss-grown  in  the 
Cotentin ! 

At  Valognes  I  inquired  where  I  could  find  a  horse 
and  driver,  and  was  referred  to  a  prosperous  farmer 
in  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  who  met  my  suggestion 
with  cordiality,  and  led  me  with  pride,  which  was 
barely  repressed  exultation,  to  his  stableful  of 
horses.  "Choose,  monsieur,  sil  vous  plait!"  And 
I  chose;  and  his  eyes  twinkled  pleasantly  when  I 
picked  a  well-set-up  bay.  He  hitched  it  to  a  two- 
wheeled  high-seated  cart,  and  thus  charioted  we 
set  forth  to  bowl  over  miles  and  miles  of  the  coun- 
tryside. 

Rich  farmer  though  he  was,  as  a  matter  of  course 
I  spoke  of  payment,  and  as  a  matter  of  course  he 
met  me  naturally  and  named  his  price — some  two 
dollars  a  day  for  himself  and  outfit.  It  is  always 
best  for  a  traveler  to  speak  of  payment  for  any 
service,  and  to  do  so  in  advance.  The  supposed 
delicacy,  which  is  merely  finicalness,  which  makes 
one  fear  to  speak  of  money,  has  led  to  many  an 
unpleasant  misunderstanding.  People  are  seldom 
displeased  with  the  idea  of  receiving  money  for 

[85] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

services  rendered.  I  have  heard  warnings,  in 
various  parts  of  both  England  and  America,  against 
asking  a  price  or  even  offering  to  pay,  but  I  have  yet 
to  find  the  man  who— having  expressed  a  willingness 
to  do  a  service;  not,  of  course,  a  service  by  a  friend 
for  a  friend — has  been  offended  by  a  frank  offer  of 
money.  Rather,  a  man  would  be  offended  by  the 
failure  to  offer  it!  But,  naturally,  offense  could 
easily  be  given  and  taken  by  an  offensive  way  of 
speaking  of  this  subject. 

The  Valognes  farmer  was  intelligent,  fine  of  face, 
large  and  well  formed  of  body;  in  these  respects  a 
typical  Cotentin  peasant,  who  are  a  good-looking, 
large  framed,  intelligent  folk.  He  was  anxious  to 
oblige  me  and  frankly  curious  as  to  what  I  wanted 
to  see  and  learn;  and  both  the  obligingness  and  the 
curiosity  came  largely  from  naive  interest  in  me  as 
a  stranger  and  an  American. 

He  drove  without  protest,  although  sometimes 
with  mild  wonder,  in  whatever  direction  I  indicated. 
I  had  supplied  myself  with  a  local  map,  but  when  I 
did  not  indicate  he  chose  the  roads  himself.  And 
such  charming  roads!  Such  delightful  old  houses! 
Such  hospitality! — for  he  knew  everybody,  was  ac- 
quainted or  related  everywhere,  and  everywhere 
we  were  treated  as  honored  guests. 

He  was  not  garrulous,  but  was  ready  to  talk  when 
he  saw  that  he  was  pleasing  me,  and  his  concern 
when  I  did  not  precisely  catch  his  meaning  was  al- 

[86] 


The  Norman  Home  of  the  Bruce 

most  touching!  And  whenever,  on  one  side  or  the 
other,  we  came  to  an  impasse,  it  was  a  matter  of 
carefully  aiming  words  at  each  other  till  one  of  us 
hit  the  mark  and  mutual  understanding  resulted 
with  also  resultant  glee. 

Now  and  then  there  was  use  for  the  invaluable 
dictionary;  as  when  he  referred  to  a  tree,  looking 
like  an  American  beech,  as  what  sounded  like  an 
"ate";  whereupon  seeing  that  I  did  not  catch  it, 
he  took  the  book  and  turned  its  pages,  first  in  con- 
fidence, then  with  growing  doubt,  finally  with  long- 
faced  certainty  of  failure.  "I  cannot  find  it,  moi!" 
And  at  length,  "But  no,  it  is  not  here!"  His  face 
perceptibly  drooped  as  he  handed  the  book  back  to 
me.  His  disappointment  was  great.  Not  for  an 
instant  did  he,  as  the  average  American  would  do 
were  the  circumstances  reversed,  seem  to  think 
that  the  fault  or  the  shortcoming  lay  with  the  stranger 
who  had  not  learned  the  language.  His  regret  was 
only  that  he  could  not  make  me  understand.  It 
was  unthinkable!  It  was  a  calamity! 

Taking  back  the  dictionary,  I  looked  under 
"beech,"  and  found  that  it  was  "hetre"— but  I 
assuredly  did  not  let  him  know  that  he  missed  the 
spelling  when  he  had  looked  only  under  the  "e's," 
as  I  had  noticed  that  he  was  doing!  After  all,  he 
was  only  making  an  error  similar  in  character  to  that 
of  the  distinguished  American  lawyer  who,  prepar- 
ing to  crush  his  opponent  with  the  dictionary 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

meaning  of  "wholesome,"  looked  in  vain  under 
the"h's." 

It  was  a  day  of  uncertain  glory,  for  now  the  sky 
was  clear  and  the  landscape  was  the  perfection  of 
delightfulness,  and  now  there  were  flying  clouds 
and  showers  of  gusty  rain.  For  it  rains  very  easily 
in  lower  Normandy. 

The  men  whistling  to  their  horses  to  guide  them 
as  they  hauled  or  ploughed,  the  tiny  canals  for 
irrigation,  criss-crossing  the  fields,  the  stone-walled 
pools  of  green-scummed  water,  with  their  great 
aspect  of  age,  the  brimming  little  streams  sud- 
denly expanding  into  shallow  ponds,  and  then,  as 
if  in  panic  at  their  own  daring,  as  suddenly  closing 
in  again,  the  fruit  trees,  the  splendid  hedges,  the 
cattle  browsing  drowsily,  the  tiny  school  house, 
with  a  noise  issuing  from  it  as  of  the  droning  of  an 
immense  hive  of  bees,  but  caused  by  the  children 
studying  aloud,  the  little  slopes,  the  winding  val- 
leys, the  men  belted  with  scarfs  of  red  and  wearing 
wooden  shoes  stuffed  with  straw,  the  roadside  walls, 
so  covered  with  the  gradual  accumulation  of  the 
dust  of  centuries  as  often  quite  to  hide  the  stone 
and  make  the  walls,  with  moss  and  flowers  and  vines 
and  shrubs  and  trees  growing  richly  out  of  them, 
seem  like  walls  of  earth  alone — this  was  fascinating 
in  itself,  and  even  more  fascinating  when  met  in 
the  course  of  an  expedition  to  Brix. 

I  did  not  try  to  go  straight  to  the  place;  I  wanted 

[88] 


The  Norman  Home  of  the  Bruce 

to  see  other  places  too,  and  to  see  the  entire  country- 
side in  the  most  charming  way,  and  so  we  twisted 
and  circled  about,  mainly  along  retired  roads,  away 
not  only  from  railway  points,  but  also  from  any 
diligence  route,  for  in  that  way  I  found  a  country 
with  its  characteristics  unaltered  by  contact  with 
strangers. 

Now  and  then  we  came  to  some  little  village, 
and  then  it  was  a  pleasure  to  go  into  the  little  inn, 
and  sit  down  at  a  little  table  while  the  cheerful 
landlord — or  more  often  landlady! — set  forth  some 
simple  refreshment;  and  always  my  companion, 
like  the  other  farmers  and  peasants  of  the  Cotentin 
that  I  had  noticed,  used  his  own  knife,  and  did  not 
care  for  fork  or  spoon.  Doubtless,  the  men  who 
went  to  the  Conquest  ate  likewise  with  knives  alone! 

At  every  inn  it  is  expected,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
that  coffee  and  cognac  will  be  ordered;  wine,  indeed, 
may  be,  or  cider,  but  even  so  the  coffee  and  cognac 
will  almost  be  a  matter  of  course  as  well.  Coffee- 
and-cognac  is  the  typical  drink  of  the  region.  The 
cognac  is  very  coarse;  it  is  practically  unrectified 
spirits;  it  seems  strong  enough  to  kill  a  live  man  or 
bring  to  life  a  dead  one,  and  yet,  somehow,  I  did 
not  notice  any  one  affected  by  it.  And,  after  all, 
I  remembered  that  I  had  seen  the  mountaineers  of 
Georgia  and  the  Carolinas  drink  unstintedly  of 
stark  moonshine  without  apparent  effect. 

Always  the  cognac  and  the  coffee  are  taken  to- 

[89] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

gether.  The  man  who  takes  cognac  without  coffee 
or  coffee  without  cognac  is  rather  disapprovingly 
known  for  miles  around  as  a  curiosity.  The  coffee 
itself  is  largely  chicory — but  even  the  coffee  of 
Paris  is  that! — and  both  cognac  and  coffee  together 
cost  but  a  few  coppers  for  the  twofold  tipple,  the 
double  drink. 

Our  real  luncheon  that  day,  as  distinguished 
from  the  numerous  tastes  and  snacks,  was  at  an 
inn  at  the  very  edge  of  an  alluring  forest,  and  we 
sat  on  a  bench  beside  the  table,  at  the  door,  and 
the  repast  was  a  savory  compound  of  I  know  not 
what  ingredients  that  had  boiled  and  bubbled  in 
a  great  caldron  that  was  twice  as  large  as  the  little 
stove  that  upheld  it. 

Even  more  interesting  than  the  inns  are  the 
country  homes,  the  houses  of  the  farmers,  mossy- 
walled,  mossy-thatched  or  tiled,  nestled  beside 
little  streams  or  ponds,  shaded  by  tall  trees  that 
are  ivy-clad  to  their  summits  or  thick-balled  with 
mistletoe  or  made  marvelously  grotesque  by  the 
pollarding  of  many  generations. 

The  white-capped  farmer's  wife  gives  a  cheerful 
welcome;  the  farmer  himself  will  probably  within  a 
little  while  appear.  The  room  we  enter  is  large 
and  low;  the  floor  is  of  cement  or,  more  likely, 
merely  hard-packed  earth;  the  ceiling  is  beamed 
with  oak  that  is  black  with  age;  there  are  shining 
rows  of  copper  pots  and  pans. 


The  Norman  Home  of  the  Bruce 

In  such  a  house,  of  the  prosperous  sort,  there  may 
be  a  four-post  bed  standing  right  on  the  floor  of 
earth;  there  may  be  an  ancient  eight-foot  clock; 
there  may  be  a  great  carved  ancient  time-darkened 
cupboard. 

An  open  fireplace  in  the  kitchen  serves  for  the 
household  cooking,  and  in  front  of  the  fire  the 
dog,  the  yellow  cat  (a  feature  of  rural  Normandy), 
perhaps  even  a  few  chickens,  are  gathered  in  fra- 
ternal friendship. 

It  is  this  getting  at  the  heart  of  things  that  gives 
the  keenest  zest  to  travel;  one  realizes  how  much 
is  gained  by  getting  away  from  the  usual,  and 
by  seeing  a  country  in  an  unusual  way.  It  is 
among  my  pleasantest  memories,  this  driving  about 
in  out-of-the-way  corners  of  Lower  Normandy, 
partly  with  definite  aims  as  to  destination  and  in 
part  just  for  the  general  pleasure  of  it.  Had  it 
been  only  to  reach  Brix,  so  I  found  afterward,  I 
could  have  taken  a  local  train  out  of  Cherbourg, 
stopped  at  the  station  a  mile  from  Brix  and  walked 
up,  as  indeed  I  did  in  the  course  of  another  visit 
in  another  year — for  I  came  so  to  love  the  country 
as  to  like  to  get  back  again.  But  this  first  visit, 
this  driving  about  for  the  pure  joy  of  it,  with  only 
now  and  then  a  fixed  objective,  remains  in  my 
memory  as  an  experience  of  singular  charm.  And 
this  part  of  the  Cotentin,  round  about  Valognes, 
has  more  of  intrinsic  attractiveness  than  the  sterner 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

portion  around  Greville  and  toward  the  Nez  de 
Jobourg. 

Great  black  and  white  magpies  flitted  across 
the  roads;  often  I  saw  the  robin,  the  rouge-gorge; 
there  was  a  glory  of  flowers  and  greenery;  there 
were  roses  paramount  in  beauty — somehow,  one 
comes  to  expect  roses  in  bloom  at  any  time  of  the 
year  in  France!  Many  a  road  rises  above  the 
general  level  of  the  land  and  many  a  road  runs 
felicitously  below,  between  banks  topped  by  wall 
and  hedge.  The  stone  cottages  of  the  humbler 
folk,  the  wagons  topped  with  cloth  of  green,  the 
washed  clothes  drying  on  the  hedges  that  were 
flaming  with  flowers  of  pink  or  yellow — everything 
was  a  delight. 

It  struck  me  as  curious  that,  in  spite  of  the  war- 
like reputation  of  these  people,  there  is  no  great 
abundance  of  castles  evident;  there  are  some  parts 
of  Europe  where  one  is  continually  impressed  by 
the  frequency  and  the  greatness  of  the  strongholds, 
but  the  general  Cotentin  castles  were  rather  small 
and  were  long  ago  pretty  much  quarried  away  for 
building  stone  to  meet  peaceful  needs,  and  it  is 
comparatively  seldom  that  one  still  finds  where  the 
splendor  falls  on  castle  walls. 

The  thatched  roofs  of  the  countryside  are,  too,  a 
never-ceasing  delight,  weathered  and  mossed  into 
subtly  harmonizing  shades  of  green  and  yellow  and 
red  and  brown  and  black;  and  that  thatched  roofs 

[923 


The  Norman  Home  of  the  Bruce 

are  now  forbidden  to  be  made,  on  account  of  fire 
danger,  adds  additional  interest,  for  thus  they  be- 
come of  the  things  that  must  pass  away.  And  one 
finds  that  the  peasantry  are  shrewd  as  well  as 
picturesque;  for  although  thatch  roofs  are  now  for- 
bidden, the  repairing  of  thatch  roofs  with  thatch  is 
still  allowed,  and  here  and  there  you  find  a  cottage 
which  has  secured  a  needed  new  thatch  roof  in  the 
course  of  judiciously  separated  periods  of  repair! 

At  length,  after  hours  of  devious  driving,  we 
turned  toward  Brix,  and  we  drove  along  a  lonely 
road  and  through  a  great  wood,  and  there  came 
anew,  as  there  had  come  at  other  times  that  day, 
a  sense  of  wonder  that  there  should  be  so  much  of 
solitude  in  a  region  of  good  soil,  richly  farmed, 
which  has  been  for  so  many  centuries  settled. 

The  solitude  was  broken  as  we  turned  a  bend, 
for  two  old  women  were  walking  toward  us  with 
huge  bundles  of  faggots,  twice  their  size,  upon  their 
backs;  they  walked  slow  and  stoopingly,  now  and 
then  rising  painfully  erect  for  a  moment's  rest  as 
they  tipped  the  huge  bundles  back  on  a  roadside 
log  or  bank.  And  yet  the  crones  looked  happy! 

At  length,  up  a  winding  road,  with  an  ascent  so 
gentle  that  one  is  later  astonished  by  the  far-spread 
view,  and  we  are  at  Brix. 

The  village  itself  gives  at  first  a  certain  sense  of 
disappointment,  for  its  houses,  rather  plain  and 
modern,  do  not  measure  up  to  expectations  con- 

[93] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

nected  with  a  glorious  name;^and  then  one  realizes 
that  this  adds  to  the  dramatic  sense  of  it;  the  fact 
that  this  ordinary  little  village,  not  nearly  so  at- 
tractive as  many  another  Norman  village,  should 
be  the  cradle  of  the  mighty  Bruces.  And  one  sees, 
too,  that  the  village,  with  its  plain  stone  houses 
set  closely  about  the  edges  of  a  bare  and  open 
square,  closely  resembles  villages  in  Scotland  and 
northern  England;  it  is  closely  remindful  of  Norham, 
built  in  the  shadow  of  a  mighty  Norman  castle  on 
the  Scottish  border. 

After  the  first  dash  of  disappointment  one  also 
sees  that  there  is  something  of  peculiar  interest  here : 
a  very  old  church,  not  large,  but  of  very  unusual 
shape;  for  it  is  built  with  four  wings  of  equal  size 
standing  out  from  a  central  square,  above  this 
centre  rising  a  small  and  ancient  square-sided  tower. 
There  is  the  tiniest  of  tiny  galleries,  reached,  oddly 
enough,  by  an  outside  stairway,  and  as  if  one  out- 
side stairway  were  not  enough  for  one  little  church, 
there  is  another  one  also,  this  second  stair  leading 
above  the  body  of  the  building  and  into  the  tower. 
And  the  stone  steps  of  both  these  stairs  are  smooth- 
hollowed  by  the  footsteps  of  generations  and  grayed 
and  mossed  with  age. 

Looking  at  the  church,  it  suddenly  flashes  upon 
one  that  its  shape  (that  of  a  crux  decussatd)  is  that 
of  the  St.  Andrew's  Cross,  the  cross  of  Scotland! — 
more  than  a  coincidence,  this,  one  thinks,  in  the 


Ax  THE  NORMAN  HOME  OF  THE  BRUCE 


f  Old  Eurc 

.\nd  or 
plain   st< 
A  a   bare 

in  Scotia 
^emindful  of  N 
:y  Normai 

intment  one 

lai  y  unu 

of  equal 

;uare-sided  to 

. 

as  if  01 
for  one  little 
ond  stair  lea^ 
i  to  the  to^ 
re  smo< 
enerations  and  gr 


rux  decussate)  is 

ss  of  Scotlanr 
mon  -hinks,   in  the 


The  Norman  Home  of  the  Bruce 

home  of  the  Bruce;  surely  some  early  Bruce  had  this 
church  thus  built  to  symbolize  his  Scotch  glories  and 
affiliations.  Not,  of  course,  but  that  other  churches 
have  been  built  in  this  unusual  shape,  but  that  in 
this  case  there  was  most  likely  the  Scottish  reason 
for  it. 

There  comes  to  me,  in  particular — for  I  have  more 
than  once  visited  Brix — the  memory  of  an  Easter 
Sunday,  when  this  church  was  plethoric  with  white- 
capped  women  and  black-bloused  men,  sex  sitting 
strictly  apart  from  sex;  with  one  priest  to  officiate 
and  another  at  the  organ;  and  with  two  white- 
gowned  laymen,  metamorphosed  from  the  farm, 
blowing  on  long  brass  horns,  their ,  heads  angled 
awkwardly  forward  and  their  eyes  starting,  as  they 
not  only  jointly  blew,  but  jointly  read  their  music 
from  an  ancient-looking  book,  arm-long. 

Where  the  graveyard  has  long  gathered  its  dead 
under  the  walls  of  the  church  there  rises  an  "if" 
tree,  a  mighty  yew,  extravagant  of  shape,  prepos- 
terous of  convolution.  "It  is  a  very,  very  old  tree," 
said  one  of  the  priests,  walking  with  me  there  after 
the  service.  "It  is  much  older  than  the  graveyard, 
and  this  old  graveyard  is  older  than  the  old  church. 
Perhaps — who  knows! — perhaps  it  is  as  old  as  the 
castle!" 

One  of  the  strong  impressions  that  remains  with 
me  has  nothing  to  do  with  a  Bruce;  it  is  but  an 
inscription  on  an  humble  stone  above  a  woman's 

[95] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

grave.  "Infinite  regrets" —that  is  all,  except  the 
name  of  the  woman.  "Infinite  regrets" — indicative, 
that,  of  a  sorrow  deeper  than  could  be  expressed 
by  loquacity  of  gravestone  grief. 

Although  the  village  houses  are  but  ordinary, 
there  is,  at  the  edge  of  the  village,  an  old-time 
manor-house,  large,  almost  stately,  almost  impres- 
sive, and  in  its  rambling  garret  I  found,  and  secured 
for  five  francs,  a  splendid  Norman  milk  jug — one  of 
the  big  brass  jugs  such  as  milk-girls  carry  on  their 
shoulders,  and  of  which  models,  of  all  sizes,  little 
and  big,  are  offered,  brand  new,  to  the  visitors  to 
Cherbourg.  Few  things  are  more  interesting  and 
more  satisfactory  than  to  secure  beautiful  and 
typical  articles  in  the  very  regions  where  they^have 
been  made  and  used  for  centuries. 

Unless  one  should  specially  inquire  and  urgently 
search,  he  would  not  see  what  remains  of  the  ancient 
castle.  It  is  off  at  one  side  from  the  village,  and 
reached  by  narrow  and  seemingly  purposeless  roads. 

The  ruins  are  on  a  hilltop  from  which  there  is 
a  fair  and  radiant  view,  stretching  off  to  shadowy 
forest  and  duskily  remote  mystery. 

Considered  merely  as  ruins,  never  were  ruins 
more  triflingly  fragmentary  than  those  of  Bruce. 
The  original  castle  seems  to  have  been  nearly  de- 
stroyed, and  another,  centuries  ago,  raised  upon 
its  foundations,  only  to  be  itself  captured,  dis- 
mantled, deserted,  destroyed.  Likely  enough  the 


The  Norman  Home  of  the  Bruce 

ancient  church  is  built  of  castle  stone;  likely  enough 
the  village  houses  were  similarly  castle-built;  it 
having  often  been  found  convenient  for  practical 
needs  to  have  a  supply  of  shaped  and  squared 
stones  ready  to  hand,  and  it  thus  coming  to  pass, 
in  many  a  place  in  Europe,  that  the  peasants  sit 
in  the  seats  of  the  mighty. 

Here  and  there,  at  the  Bruce  ruins,  is  a  bit  of 
foundation  wall,  projective  through  rich  green  turf, 
and  by  dint  of  patient  study  the  outlines  of  the 
ancient  structure  may  still  be  traced,  though  the 
remains  are  quite  too  fragmentary  to  identify  the 
early  architecture  or  even  find'  a  rounded  Norman 
arch.  Along  one  side  may  still  be  found  the  line 
of  the  moat,  and  on  the  other  side  is  the  edge  of 
the  hill  and  a  precipitous  dropping  away  toward 
a  hurrying  brook,  far  below,  that  is  half  hidden 
among  greenery. 

In  the  cliff-like  bank  I  found  an  opening  into  a 
subterranean  apartment  and  passage,  and  there  I 
found  an  inscription,  evidently  a  copy  of  an  in- 
scription far  more  ancient,  telling,  in  ecclesiastical 
Latin,  that  all  this  was  the  land  of  the  Bruce  (spell- 
ing it  here  "Bruis"),  from  the  forest  to  the  church, 
according  to  the  charter  of  Henry  II.  Apparently, 
the  Bruces  retained  their  Norman  possessions  at 
least  a  century  after  the  Conquest,  and  England 
retained  the  sovereignty  of  Normandy  not  only 
to  the  reign  of  Henry  II,  but  to  that  of  King  John— 

[97] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

John  Lackland;  whom  one  recognizes  under  the 
delightful  name  of  Jean  sans  Terre,  as  they  call  him 
— who  lost  it  to  France. 

I  went  along  the  passage,  down  a  flight  of  mouldy 
steps  of  stone,  then  a  little  distance  farther  and 
down  a  slope,  and  there  found  the  passage,  still  de- 
scendent,  so  narrow,  so  black,  so  choked  with  debris 
that  to  pass  farther  would  be  impossible  unless  with 
destruction  of  clothes  and  with  moiling  of  the  hard- 
est. "It  goes  for  many  metres,"  says,  quietly,  the 
old  peasant  who  has  hoveringly  accompanied  me 
and  who  now  comes  closely  up. 

Does  he  know  anything  of  it?  But  no!  " Moi, 
I  cannot  say.  It  was  here  before  my  father's  day, 
before  my  grandfather's!"  Clearly,  to  him  history 
can  mean  nothing  more  distant  than  that. 

But  one  does  not  want  such  a  passage  at  the 
Norman  castle  of  Bruce  explained,  accounted  for, 
made  plain.  There  is  much  in  Europe  that  must  be 
learned,  many  a  date  and  fact  that  must  needs  be 
acquired,  but  happily  there  is  also  much  that  can 
be  left  as  it  is,  with  its  interest  dependent  upon  pre- 
cisely what  is  visible. 

At  Brix  there  are  other  mementoes  of  the  past 
than  a  church,  a  graveyard,  the  remnant  of  a  ruin, 
for  there  are  old-time  Norman  customs,  beliefs, 
superstitions.  The  superstitions  are  of  less  grave 
character  than  some  I  came  across  in  the  bleak 
region  of  the  Cotentin,  along  the  coast,  where  the 

[981 


IN  A  TOWN  OF  WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR:  VALOGNES 


of  O1 


. 


c  impossible 
ith  moiling  of  the  ; 
•juieth 
companied   me 

-ut  no!     "Mot*, 

ban  that. 

passage  at  the 

plained,   accounted 

in  Europe  that  must  be 

lat  must  needs  be 

<nuch  that  can 

?st  dependent  upon  pre~ 


:mnant  of  a  r 
oms,   beii 

JTV*    r^t 


The  Norman  Home  of  the  Bruce 

fisher  folk  tell  whisperingly  of  the  ghosts  of  the 
drowned  and  of  powers  direful.  Here  at  Brix,  in 
the  midst  of  a  rich  and  a  smiling  Cotentin  region, 
not  only  are  the  beliefs  of  a  lighter  character,  but 
most  of  them,  such  as  that  concerning  the  ill-luck 
of  breaking  a  mirror,  are  the  common  property  of 
the  superstitious  of  the  world.  I  noticed  with  in- 
terest, too,  the  superstition  in  regard  to  the  over- 
turning of  the  salt,  for  that  is  a  belief  which  has 
persisted  throughout  the  world  for  so  many  cen- 
turies, and  can  at  least  be  traced  to  the  legendary 
overturning  of  the  salt  by  Judas  at  the  Last 
Supper. 

The  tale  of  the  priest  who,  having  hidden  away 
wrongfully  acquired  money,  denied  it  with  vehe- 
mence, is  typical  of  the  mild  lengths  to  which  local 
superstition  goes.  The  priest,  still  denying,  cried 
at  length:  "The  devil  take  me  if  I  have  the  money!" 
Whereat  the  devil  promptly  appeared  in  person 
and  personally  conducted  him  away.  "And," 
said  an  old  woman  gravely,  "once  a  year,  still,  after 
all  these  many  years,  the  devil  appears  and  again 
takes  the  wicked  priest  away.  You  have  but  to  be 
at  the  right  place  at  the  right  moment  and  you  will 
see!" 

A  buzzing  in  the  right  ear  means  good  fortune, 
whereas — so  slight  a  difference  in  this  world  so 
often  marking  the  difference  between  good  and 
evil! — a  similar  buzzing  in  the  left  ear  bodes  some- 

[99] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

thing  ill.  If  a  chimney  draws  poorly  and  the  smoke 
comes  pouring  out  into  the  room,  "There  is  money 
coming,"  you  will  be  told.  And  yet,  as  a  peasant 
said  to  me  with  humorous  deprecation,  when  a  puff 
of  smoke  came  out  of  his  fireplace:  "Often  has 
the  smoke  done  thus,  and  still  the  money  has  not 
come!" 

Weddings  are  times  of  prideful  display,  with  plenty 
of  simple  fun  and  homely  jesting.  A  bright  day  is 
hoped  for,  as  it  is  the  world  over;  here  they  say: 
"Rain  is  bad,  for  it  means  for  the  bride  a  lifetime  of 


tears.'3 


The  wedding  party  walk  to  the  church.  The 
bride  is  dressed  in  black,  but  sometimes  wears  a 
veil  of  white  lace.  Guns  are  fired  as  the  party  start 
back  to  the  home,  and  the  guns  are  hymeneally 
celebrant  later,  too,  as  a  means  of  enforcing  a  wel- 
come for  the  uninvited,  and  some  prefer  to  be  of 
the  uninvited  because  they  find  a  great  deal  of  enjoy- 
ment in  making  a  tremendous  firing  din  outside  and 
then  going  in  with  a  sort  of  triumphant  and  con- 
quering glory. 

It  is  still  the  custom  for  some  young  man  to 
crawl  beneath  the  table  at  the  wedding  feast  and 
possess  himself  of  the  bride's  garter,  and  as  this 
has  been  regularly  done  for  centuries,  any  bride 
with  Cotentin  self-respect  would  feel  really  slighted 
were  there  no  young  man  daring  enough  to  do  this; 
and  it  may  be  added  that  in  anticipation  of  such  a 

[100] 


The  Norman  Home  of  the  Bruce 

feat  the  bride  always  wears  her  garters  below  the 
knee!     Honi  soit  qui  mal  y  pense! 


VIII.    UNEXPECTED    SURVIVALS    IN    AND 
NEAR    PARIS 

UROPEAN  distances  are  a 
great  surprise  to  Americans. 
We  have  all  been  told,  over 
and  over  again,  that  the  dis- 
tances over  there  are  really 
nothing  at  all;  that  it  is  only 
in  America  that  there  are  dis- 
tances; that  in  Europe  the 
_  going  from  place  to  place 

eF  takes  so  little  time  that  one 

may  count  upon  spending  all 

his  time  sight-seeing,  the  travel  itself  being  neg- 
ligible. Whereupon  the  American  expects  to  flit 
from  London  to  Rome,  Paris,  Berlin  more  easily 
and  quickly  than  from  New  York  to  Philadelphia, 
Boston,  Washington.  All  of  which  makes  for 
disillusionment! 

In  the  first  place,  the  distances  in  Europe  are  long, 
and  in  the  next  place  the  trains  are  very  slow.  That 
there  is  no  trip  so  long  as  from  New  York  to  San 
Francisco  is  the  basis  of  the  mistaken  but  generally 
inculcated  belief  in  the  short  and  easy  travel  of 

Europe. 

[102] 


Unexpected  Survivals  In  and  Near  Paris 

As  to  trains,  it  is  true  that  Europeans  boast  of 
their  fast  ones,  and  that  many  Americans  accept 
their  boast  without  examination;  it  is  true  that  there 
are  really  a  few  fast  ones;  but  it  is  also  true  that  the 
great  majority  are  slow  and  that  European  travel 
is  both  lengthy  and  leisurely. 

The  mere  getting  from  Cherbourg,  on  the  coast, 
to  Paris  involves  quite  a  journey,  as  the  distance  is 
231  miles  and  the  trains  take  from  seven  and  a  half 
to  twelve  hours  for  the  trip.  Take  a  train  which 
lets  you  stop  at  one  or  two  of  the  fascinating  places 
on  the  way  and  you  are  in  for  a  pleasure  long  drawn 
out.  It  is  only  an  express  train  that  stops  nowhere 
at  all  that  gets  through  with  even  an  approach  to 
speed. 

Paris  itself  I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe;  myriad 
of  guide  books  and  books  of  description  have  been 
written  about  that  wonderful  city;  and  yet  even  in 
Paris  he  who  looks  for  the  unexpected,  the  unusual, 
the  unknown  is  sure  to  find  it. 

I  remember  that  one  day,  when  walking  at  ran- 
dom through  the  region  between  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes  and  the  Pantheon,  a  region  desolate  in  it- 
self and  more  desolate  from  a  number  of  dreary 
prisons  and  asylums,  I  came  upon  a  street  which 
meant  the  French  Revolution  to  me  more  than 
anything  else  in  Paris;  far  more  than  anything  in 
the  Rue  St.  Antoine  region,  connected  though  that 
is,  in  history  and  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  with  revo- 

[103] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

lutionary  activity;  for  the  Rue  St.  Antoine  is  now  a 
street  mainly  of  mechanics  and  artisans  and  modest 
prosperity,  whereas  this  street  upon  which  I  hap- 
pened— I  think  it  was  the  Rue  Mouffetard — is  a 
street  of  ragpickers,  chiffoniers,  as  they  are  called, 
who  prowl  the  gutters  with  hook  and  broom;  a  street 
of  poverty,  gaunt  and  grim  and  terrible;  not  a  street 
of  "show"  poverty,  to  impress  strangers,  just  as 
there  is  "show"  iniquity,  but  of  the  real  poverty, 
of  snag-toothed,  crouchy,  hungry,  gnarl-bodied  peo- 
ple who  step  aside  on  the  crowded  walks  or  come 
creeping  emergent  from  the  entrance-ways  of  the 
tall  and  tremulous  tenements.  I  think  I  never  saw 
so  many  one-eyed  wretches.  The  vaunted  economies 
of  the  French  show  here  in  a  most  unpleasant  way, 
as  indicated  by  the  treasures  gathered  to  be  sorted 
over  and  sold;  not  only  rags,  but  bones — cellars  of 
bones! — and  little  bags  of  canine  refuse  gathered  in 
the  parks  and  destined  for  the  leather  factories. 

It  is  a  district  where  the  essential  backwardness 
of  so  much  of  Paris  as  to  water-service  and  sewage 
is  most  marked,  and  where  ancient  doddering 
women  carry  water  from  public  hydrants  up  end- 
less flights  of  stairs  in  cone-shaped  vessels  of  tin 
that  are  black  with  age  and  dirt. 

It  is  well  to  know  that  there  are  such  districts, 
for  thus  alone  can  the  France  of  the  past  and  of  the 
present  be  properly  understood;  and  it  is  also  well 
to  know,  on  the  other  hand,  somewhat  of  the  length 

[104] 


Unexpected  Survivals  In  and  Near  Paris 

to  which  arrogant  royalty  and  wealth  once  went; 
and  this  can  be  understood  by  little  journeys  to 
royal  places  about  Paris;  not  only  the  famous  Ver- 
sailles, but  such  places  as  Meudon,  St.  Cloud,  St. 
Germain,  Marly-le-Roi. 

And  the  ideal  way  to  see  these  places,  and,  inci- 
dentally, much  of  the  unusual  and  unvisited  in  the 
country  close  around  Paris,  is  to  take  a  day's  ex- 
cursion to  some  selected  point  and  then  take  random 
walks  along  the  terraces,  along  the  country  roads, 
and  through  the  forest  paths;  one  sees  in  that  way, 
in  pleasant  weather,  so  much  that  is  charming,  and 
sees  it  in  such  a  charming  way.  Take  a  train  to 
the  chosen  point  of  beginning,  walk  as  long  as  you 
choose,  and  then  aim  for  some  little  station  and  a 
return  train  to  Paris. 

One  hot  day,  walking  on  an  offshoot  from  the  old 
royal  road  that  leads  from  Marly-le-Roi  to  Ver- 
sailles, I  saw  some  big  ripe  plums  fallen  from  the 
trees  and  lying  in  the  road.  I  picked  up  two  or 
three  of  them — they  were  delicious! — but,  chancing 
to  speak  of  it,  in  the  evening,  to  a  French  friend, 
he  was  horrified.  "A  Frenchman  would  not  dare!" 
he  said. 

"Then  it  is  not  proper?"  I  asked,  wondering. 

"Not  in  France!  Had  you  not  been  an  American 
there  might  have  been  trouble." 

"Yet  I  picked  up  not  more  than  three  plums,  and 
they  were  not  in  a  field,  but  lying  in  the  grass  in  the 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

very  road.  In  America  a  pedestrian  would  do  that 
on  a  country  road  without  hesitation." 

I  felt  rather  proud  of  America  by  contrast  with 
this  closeness  of  France,  and  perhaps  I  showed  that 
I  did,  for  he  retorted,  with  a  smile:  "But  the  matter 
of  boundary — is  it  also  in  America  that  a  chicken  is 
safe  only  if  it  is  not  in  the  road?"  And  I  had  to 
laugh  with  him. 

I  thought  again  of  the  French  Revolution,  that 
greatest  of  all  facts  in  French  history,  when,  run- 
ning down  into  Touraine,  and  seeing  there  the 
most  beautiful,  the  most  exquisite  of  all  chateaux, 
representative  of  the  glories  of  the  days  of  the 
ancient  nobility,  the  contrast  of  all  this  with  the 
poverty  of  the  old-time  peasants,  as  described  by 
historians  and  travelers,  came  to  me.  And  one 
day,  after  viewing  the  glories  of  Amboise,  with  its 
splendid  architecture,  its  circular  towers,  the  mar- 
velous spiral  inclined  road  built  to  minister  to  an 
extravagant  fancy  for  the  impossible,  I  walked  back 
into  the  country  a  little  and,  in  the  face  of  a  cliff, 
caught  sight  of  ascending  smoke.  Something  made 
me  look  more  closely,  and  I  saw  that  it  came  from 
a  chimney — that  there  were  other  chimneys — that 
people  lived  there!  Whereupon  I  climbed  up  to 
see. 

Yes,  they  were  there;  cliff-dwellers,  families  who 
lived  in  caves  hollowed  out  of  the  soft  rock  of  the 
countryside.  The  tiny  rooms  had  natural  stone 

[106] 


Unexpected  Survivals  In  and  Near  Paris 

floors,  natural  stone  ceilings  and  walls;  only  the 
front  walls  in  each  case  had  needed  building  to  take 
the  place  of  what  was  necessarily  destroyed  in  the 
hollowing  out. 

I  learned  that  this  kind  of  rock-living  is  quite 
ancient  and  is  not  uncommon  in  that  region,  and 
I  afterward  came  upon  a  whole  village  of  it  at 
Montlouis,  below  Amboise,  on  the  Loire,  and  upon 
other  similar  places;  and  always  with  the  sense  of 
the  tremendous  contrast  between  lives  lived  in 
caves,  with  children  born  and  reared  there  and 
people  cooking  and  eating  and  sleeping — and  dy- 
ing!— and  lives  lived  in  those  most  beautiful  homes 
nearby — the  world-famous  chateaux  of  Touraine. 

One  of  the  pleasant  discoveries  that  the  visitor 
to  Paris  can  make  is  that  the  well-to-do  Parisians, 
supposedly  the  most  sophisticated  of  all  people,  the 
most  worldly,  the  most  blase,  the  most  sated  and 
surfeited  with  pleasure,  know  how  to  go  out  and 
enjoy  a  simple  childlike  day  at  an  outing!  It  is 
therefore  well  worth  while  being  at  St.  Germain  at 
the  time  of  its  annual  fair,  early  in  September,  to 
watch  the  Parisians  go  in  care-free  gayety  along  the 
avenues  of  the  forest  when  they  are  lined  by  tem- 
porary booths.  It  used  to  be  that  my  most  inter- 
esting memories  of  St.  Germain  were  of  its  con- 
nection with  that  picturesque  monarch  Francis 
the  First,  and  that  unpicturesque  exile  James  the 
Second,  who  was  given  a  home  here  by  Louis  the 

[to/] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

Fourteenth,  and  used  to  pace  up  and  down  the  long 
terrace  on  a  length  of  carpet — two  lengths,  to  be 
precise — for  flunkies  would  lay  each  in  front  of  him 
in  turn,  so  that  his  delicately  royal  feet  should  not 
touch  the  earth;  running  back  and  picking  up  the 
one  just  left  and  then  running  forward  with  it  to 
get  it  down  in  time.  But  after  seeing  a  day  of  the 
annual  fair  I  realized  that  it  was  equal  to  the  other 
St.  Germain  associations  in  interest;  although  it 
should  never  be  thought  that  one  class  of  interest 
needs  to  discourage  or  belittle  other  kinds,  for  one 
may  find  enjoyment  in  the  things  of  present-day 
human  life,  and  yet  find  no  lessening  of  enjoyment 
in  architectural  beauties  and  historical  associations, 

The  annual  fair,  the  "gingerbread  fair,"  of  St. 
Cloud  follows  the  St.  Germain  fair  with  largely  the 
same  booths  and  amusement  makers,  and  is  even 
more  interesting  on  account  of  the  nearness  of  St. 
Cloud  to  the  city,  making  the  crowds  far  larger; 
and  for  several  days  and  nights  grown-up  Parisians 
are  children,  reveling  in  penny  purchases  of  ginger- 
bread, in  the  deafening  noise  of  organs,  in  the 
horses  of  the  merry-go-rounds,  in  the  clutter  and 
hubbub,  the  talk  and  the  laughter  of  the  throng. 

It  was  at  St.  Cloud,  one  summer  day,  that  I 
came  upon  an  ancient  observance,  an  ancient 
celebration  that  I  had  never  before  heard  of.  It 
was  a  feast  of  the  gardeners;  and  it  gives  quite  as 
vivid  a  pleasure  to  discover  an  ancient  observance, 

[108] 


Unexpected  Survivals  In  and  Near  Paris 

of  which  no  one  has  told  you  and  of  which  you  have 
not  read,  as  it  does  to  discover  an  unvisited  locality. 

St.  Cloud  is  a  little  old  town  that,  from  the  place 
to  which  it  seems  to  have  scrambled,  on  the  steep 
hillside  above  the  Seine,  looks  out  brightly  toward 
Paris.  The  tourist  usually  sees  St.  Cloud  only  in 
passing  through  it  if  driving  to  Versailles;  but  the 
place  is  itself  of  pleasing  interest,  with  its  many 
associations,  its  zigzag  streets  that  attempt  the 
perpendicular,  and  the  great  royal  park  and  gardens 
around  the  site  of  the  chateau,  now  vanished,  that 
was  so  loved  by  the  great  Napoleon. 

In  the  park  are  endless  forest  aisles;  there  is  water 
spouting  through  great  carved  heads  and  trickling 
softly  away  through  long  hollows  of  wrought-out 
stone;  there  are  pleached  walks  and  ancient  retain- 
ing walls;  there  is  the  glory  of  countless  flowers; 
and  in  all  the  countryside  round  about  there  is 
likewise  the  splendor  of  flowers,  with  magnificent 
riot  of  roses  reigning  supreme.  St.  Cloud  is  pre- 
eminently a  place  where  a  feast  of  the  gardeners 
should  still  be  observed. 

I  went  to  the  church,  and  before  the  people  came 
I  spoke  with  the  serene-faced  priest.  Often,  in 
Catholic  countries,  I  have  found  the  priest-  the  com- 
municative and  courteous  source  of  information, 
just  as  in  Protestant  countries  it  is  often  the  local 
rector  or  minister. 

"For  hundreds  of  years,"  says  the  priest,  "this 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

festival  has  been  observed;  for  six  hundred — per- 
haps for  eight  hundred — "  he  waves  his  hand  im- 
pressively. And  distant  music  sounds  in  momently 
increasing  clamor — a  cheerful  clamor,  full  of  life 
and  energy — and  toward  the  open  space  in  front  of 
the  church,  from  the  streets  which  twist  and  climb 
so  tortuously,  people  of  the  town  begin  to  come. 

The  priest  hastily  gathers  together  some  boys 
who  are  playing  gleefully  about,  and  sweeps  them 
into  a  porch-entrance,  and  in  a  little  while  those 
boys  will  be  scarlet-gowned,  white-surpliced  aco- 
lytes, sobered  into  transitory  gravity. 

Nearer  and  nearer  comes  the  music,  and  around 
a  sharp  corner  appears  the  head  of  the  procession 
of  the  ancient  Association  of  Gardeners.  For  this 
is  the  day  of  Saint  Fiacre,  their  patron  saint,  and 
from  farms  for  miles  around  the  gardeners  have 
gathered  and  are  marching  to  the  St.  Cloud  church. 

A  drummer  heads  the  line,  and  close  behind  him 
are  the  band — ten  or  a  dozen  young  gardeners, 
briskly  blowing  on  horns  and  trumpets  and  making 
an  inspiring  din.  Following  the  band  are  boys  in 
couples,  bearing  between  them  great  panniers  filled 
with  brioche,  a  feathery  and  unsweetened  kind  of 
cake,  piled  in  squares  and  circles  and  surmounted 
by  bunched  flowers. 

Behind  the  boys  and  the  panniered  brioche  comes 
a  triumph  of  the  gardener's  skill,  and  the  watching 
groups  are  quite  breathless  with  admiration  as  the 

[no] 


Unexpected  Survivals  In  and  Near  Paris 

chef-d'oeuvre  passes.  It  is  a  huge  vase,  made  of 
close-cut  flowers,  woven  and  wrought  into  sym- 
metrical designs  and  mainly  in  yellow  and  red.  It 
is  slung  upon  poles,  and  carried,  a  heavy  load,  by 
four  strong  men,  and  out  of  its  top  rises  toweringly 
a  waving  mass  of  asparagus  plumes,  splendid  holly- 
hocks, and  the  familiar  goldenrod. 

Behind  the  vase  are  little  girls,  with  tiny  bunches 
of  flowers,  and  then,  in  a  long  line,  and  each  moving 
with  the  brisk  and  nimble  step  called  for  by  coercive 
drum  and  trumpet,  come  the  gardeners,  men  and 
women,  old  and  young.  And  the  face  of  each  is  a 
shining  beacon  of  happiness. 

The  greater  number  are  well  advanced  in  years, 
and  there  is  a  certain  pathos  in  the  fact.  One  feels 
that  the  decline  of  the  ancient  custom  has  begun 
and  that  the  end  is  almost  in  sight. 

But  there  are  youthful  marchers  also,  and  all  go 
two  by  two,  and  most  go  arm  in  arm — husband 
and  wife,  brother  and  sister,  lover  and  sweetheart, 
friend  with  friend. 

In  the  broad  space  before  the  church  the  paraders 
take  on  a  yet  braver  aspect,  a  mien  still  more  full  of 
gay  appreciation  of  the  part  they  are  playing  in  the 
public  eye.  And,  withal,  on  the  part  of  everyone,  old 
and  young,  there  is  that  complete  absence  of  self- 
consciousness  which  is  so  pleasant  a  characteristic 
of  the  French  when  they  are  having  a  cheerful  time. 

There  is  time  to  look  about  for  a  few  minutes 

[in] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

while  the  gardeners  are  making  their  way  slowly 
through  the  broad  portal.  Facing  the  church  is  a 
curious  stone  fragment,  a  section  of  wall  and  arch, 
ancient,  half-crumbled,  half-destroyed.  Lines  of 
beauty  are  still  suggested;  dignity  indisputably 
remains;  and  you  are  told — such  being  the  received 
belief  in  the  town — that  this  was  part  of  the  monas- 
tery founded  here  some  fourteen  centuries  ago  by 
Saint  Clodoald,  grandson  of  Clovis,  the  Merovingian 
king;  and  the  folk-lore  of  St.  Cloud  will  also  tell  you 
that  when  certain  grandsons  of  Clovis,  after  the 
monarch's  death,  were  made  prisoners  by  a  claim- 
ant of  the  throne,  and  the  widow  of  Clovis  was 
asked  whether  she  wished  them  to  be  slain  or  to 
become  monks,  for  that  one  fate  or  the  other  they 
must  surely  meet,  she  chose  death  for  them,  where- 
upon all  were  slain  but  Clodoald,  who  was  saved 
by  a  faithful  retainer,  and,  becoming  a  churchman 
and  abbot,  founded  the  monastery  about  which 
the  town,  named,  from  him,  St.  Cloud,  gradually 
arose. 

But  the  gardeners  are  now  in  church,  and  the 
shuffle  of  many  feet  has  ceased,  and  the  choir  breaks 
into  a  rhythmic  chant.  The  monster  vase  has  been 
deposited  at  the  very  altar  rail,  and  on  either  side 
are  the  panniers  of  brioche,  and  a  graceful  young  girl 
stands  there  for  a  time,  holding  a  candle,  lambent 
burning  and  tall.  The  church  is  decked  with  ferns, 
with  ivy,  with  potted  plants,  and  instead  of  musty 

[1,8] 


Unexpected  Survivals  In  and  Near  Paris 

odor,  or  that  of  incense,  the  building  is  cheerful  with 
the  mingled  smell  of  flowers  and  brioche.  The  men 
are  mostly  in  drawer-creased  black;  the  women  are 
in  the  infrequent  glory  of  their  very  best  and  prob- 
ably inherited  gowns,  bright  purple  being  the  pre- 
vailing hue.  And  it  is  a  little  fact,  but  not  un- 
worthy of  notice,  that  men  and  women  alike  have  the 
broadened  thumb  that  comes  from  years  of  pressing 
of  the  earth  about  flower-pots  and  bulbs  and  vege- 
tables. 

The  sermon  is  especially  for  gardeners.  The  serene- 
faced  priest  tells  them  that  God  is  the  great  gardener 
of  the  world,  and  that  it  is  He  who  gives  the  sun- 
shine and  the  rains,  and  He  who  designed  the  roses 
and  the  lilies  and  the  homely  vegetables  and  gave 
them  to  mankind. 

The  sermon  over,  there  comes  a  burst  of  unex- 
pected music — a  sonorously  solemn  tune,  played  by 
the  gardeners'  band,  stationed  in  an  alcoved  space 
beside  the  altar.  Inside  the  church  the  drum  is 
silent,  but  now,  above  the  sound  of  horns  and  trum- 
pets, rises,  distinct  and  clear,  the  strain  of  a  piccolo, 
thin-voiced  and  sweet.  The  gardeners  let  a  few  notes 
go  awry,  but  the  general  harmony  is  effective,  and 
the  people  listen  in  pleased  intentness.  And,  indeed, 
music  ought  to  be  loved  well  and  played  well  here, 
for  in  this  church  Gounod,  who  lived  for  many  years 
at  the  edge  of  St.  Cloud,  used  often  to  play  the  or- 
gan at  mass,  and  his  memory  is  held  in  loving  awe. 

["3] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

The  panniers  of  brioche  are  now  carried  through 
the  church,  and  every  one  takes  a  piece,  and,  after 
devoutly  crossing  himself,  slowly  eats;  and  the  act 
of  gustatory  worship  brings  anew  a  smiling  glow  to 
every  face.  And  the  tall  Suisse,  appareled  in  blue 
and  gold,  and  with  gold-fringed  hat,  who,  with 
great  steel  halberd  in  one  hand  and  gold-topped 
mace  in  the  other,  has  been  standing  and  walking 
and  thumping  in  front  of  the  altar,  now  takes  him- 
self and  his  dazzle  of  glory  to  a  restful  eclipse  in  a 
chair  in  an  almost  hidden  nook,  and  with  mace  and 
halberd  laid  aside  and  cocked  hat  doffed,  he  leans 
comfortably  back  against  the  wall  and  seems  to  be 
a  mere  mortal  like  unto  ourselves. 

With  seriousness  the  service  ends,  and  then  the 
gardeners'  band,  from  its  altar  alcove,  again  breaks 
forth,  as  if  irrepressibly,  and  this  time  the  tune  is  so 
gay,  so  secular,  so  frolicsome  that  every  toe  in  the 
church  tingles  with  an  impulse  toward  terpsichorean 
friskiness. 

With  the  great  vase  towering  in  the  van  the  gar- 
deners go  out  again  into  the  bright  sunlight,  and  in 
front  of  the  church  the  line  re-forms.  "Deux  a  deux" 
says  the  leader,  quietly;  and  your  thoughts  are  for  a 
moment  irresistibly  carried  homeward,  and  to  the 
"Doozydoo"  which  has  vigorously  danced  itself 
through  every  town  and  village  in  America,  with  a 
vim  increasing  with  the  increase  of  distance  from 
France.  "Deux  a  deux"-— but  the  words  are  not 


Unexpected  Survivals  In  and  Near  Paris 

needed,  for  it  is  always  two  by  two  that  the  gar- 
deners march. 

The  groups  of  townspeople  watch  with  an  inward 
interest,  but  without  outward  and  visible  sign. 
When  you  come  to  know  the  St.  Cloud  folk  you 
know  that  this  is  characteristic.  They  never  suffer 
interest  or  approval  to  become  apparent.  The 
sense  of  having  pleased  them  must  live  by  faith 
alone. 

The  marchers  reach  the  Rue  Royale,  a  street 
bent  and  twisted  as  if  with  age,  as  it  climbs  the  steep 
hill;  and,  indeed,  it  might  well  be  so,  for  there  are  un- 
mistakable signs  of  ancientness  in  its  wavering  and 
indented  line.  It  is  so  ancient  that  memory  of  man 
runneth  not  to  the  contrary,  and  we  may  feel  assured 
that  when,  before  the  Battle  of  Cr£cy,  the  English, 
as  told  in  the  gallant  pages  of  Froissart,  burned  St. 
Cloud,  on  its  height  looking  over  at  near-by  Paris, 
the  knights  and  men-at-arms  of  Edward  the  Third 
went  up  and  down  along  the  bending  line  now  called 
the  Rue  Royale,  although  no  house  now  standing 
can  tell  of  such  antiquity. 

There  is  no  intention  on  the  part  of  the  gardeners 
to  march  near  places  of  especial  note,  and  so  it  is 
quite  by  chance  that  their  drummer  and  trumpeters 
lead  them  past  the  paved  passage  opening  into  the 
sombre  court  where  Henry  the  Third  was  slain. 
The  spot  is  unmarked,  and  even  the  court  itself  is 
never  found  by  tourists,  but  the  traditions  of 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

the  townsfolk  preserve  the  memory  of  the  exact 
place. 

The  marchers  turn  into  the  broad  avenue  which 
leads  by  the  barracks,  and  hundreds  of  soldiers 
stand  at  the  windows  or  gather  at  the  entrance  of 
the  drillyard  and  watch  the  gladsome  procession. 
And  next  the  gardeners  drum  and  trumpet  their 
way  to  the  house  of  the  mayor,  who,  stately  and  dig- 
nified, has  been  awaiting  them;  and  they  formally 
offer  him  brioche,  and  he  eats  it,  and  he  speaks  cor- 
dially to  them  and  shakes  the  hands  of  as  many  of 
the  women  and  the  men  as  are  not  too  shy  and 
diffident  to  be  greeted  by  him. 

Then,  more  gay,  more  blithesome  than  ever,  this 
semi-serious  visit  over,  they  march  to  the  Park,  the 
ancient  Royal  Park — and  the  great  gates  are  swung 
wide,  and  in  they  buoyantly  go,  as  a  right,  where 
of  old  their  ancestors  humbly  entered  on  sufferance; 
and  white-capped  peasant  women,  endlessly  knit- 
ting, glance  at  them,  from  benches  of  carved  stone 
used  of  old  by  nobles  and  courtiers. 

Following  the  march  comes  a  great  dinner  at  a 
restaurant  near  the  park,  and  then,  with  the  early 
evening,  after  several  hours  of  intermission,  there 
begins  the  gardeners'  ball.  And  numerous  young 
gardeners,  youths  and  maidens,  too  shame-faced 
to  march  in  the  parade,  in  these  days  of  change, 
are  now  among  the  happiest  and  most  conspicuous. 

Never  at  any  ball  did  one  dance  more  swiftly 

[116] 


Unexpected  Survivals  In  and  Near  Paris 

succeed  another;  never  did  musicians  work  harder; 
never  were  partners  more  gallantly  sought  out, 
more  tirelessly  spun  about,  than  by  these  broad- 
thumbed  men.  Indeed,  when  one  knows  how  un- 
courteous  a  saint  was  Saint  Fiacre  himself,  it  is  di- 
verting to  see  his  fete  day  concluded  with  such 
gallant  devotion;  for  Saint  Fiacre  would  not  even 
allow  a  woman  to  come  near  his  home! 

But  no  thoughts  of  the  crusty  grumness  of  their 
patron  saint  disturb  these  celeb rators  of  his  day. 
The  music  grows  more  brisk,  the  dancers  more  frolic- 
some, and  Saint  Fiacre  is  thus  honored  till  the 
coming  of  daylight. 


IX.     IN  THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN 


NE  day  I  set  out  from  Paris  to 
go  to  the  Forest  of  Arden. 
Yet  even  as  I  started  it  seemed 
a  fantastic  impossibility.  To 
find  and  explore  the  forest  be- 
loved of  Shakespeare  and  Rosa- 
lind would  be  like  the  coming 
true  of  a  fairy  tale.  It  was 
really  too  incredible  to  be  true. 
The  Forest  of  Arden  is  the 
Ardennes  of  Belgium;  and  I  entered  by  driving  over 
from  Sedan,  stopping  off  for  two  or  three  hours  on 
the  way  from  Paris  to  Sedan,  at  Rheims,  to  see  the 
famous  cathedral  there.  One  may  leave  Paris  in 
the  early  forenoon,  make  the  stop  at  Rheims  (which, 
by  the  way,  is  pronounced  by  the  inhabitants 
"Ross,"  with  the  "o"  very  short),  and  be  at  Sedan 
in  the  evening,  ready  to  start  next  morning  for 
Bouillon,  the  center  of  Ardennes.  From  the  north- 
ward Bouillon  may  be  reached  from  Brussels  and 
Namur,  and  thence,  by  several  changes  of  cars,  to 
Paliseul,  and  finally  by  a  narrow-gauge  that  goes 
twisting  down  among  the  hills.  From  either  south- 
ward or  northward  the  Forest  of  Arden  may  be 
reached  only  by  taking  some  trouble;  and  this  is 

[118] 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

fortunate,  for  its  unfrequented  character  is  a  prin- 
cipal charm.  I  could  not  find  that  an  American  had 
ever  been  there  before  me;  even  of  the  English  it 
was  clear  that  but  few  have  ever  visited  Arden; 
some  French  and  Belgians  go  there,  mostly  by 
motor  car.  Arden,  I  was  glad  to  find,  still  fitted  the 
Shakespearean  description  of  being  exempt  from 
public  haunt.  Neither  at  the  inn  (which  gives  good 
service)  nor  elsewhere  did  I  find  a  soul  with  a 
knowledge  of  a  single  word  of  English;  at  isolated 
villages  I  found  not  even  French,  but  only  Walloon. 

Sedan  is  a  city  for  an  impression.  Barely  more 
than  forty  years  ago  it  drank  the  dregs  of  humiliation, 
when  it  was  forced  to  surrender  a  hundred  thousand 
men  and  the  very  Emperor  himself.  Yet  now  there 
is  evident  in  a  myriad  ways  an  atmosphere  of  for- 
getfulness  and  peace,  and  the  little  red-legged  sol- 
diers trot  harmlessly  about.  But  when  I  had  settled 
it  that  the  humiliation  was  all  forgotten,  I  noticed 
that  not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  dogged  my  steps 
to  sell  mementoes  of  that  bitter  battlefield,  and  that 
if  I  spoke  in  German  to  one  of  the  townsfolk  who 
was  not  in  a  business  demanding  the  pleasing  of 
strangers,  I  was  told,  with  dry  disrelish,  that  German 
was  not  understood. 

Especially  in  Bazeilles,  a  suburb  of  Sedan,  was 
there  magnificent  fighting  in  that  fateful  battle;  and 
to  many  people  it  will  mean  more  that  De  Neuville's 
"Les  dernieres  Cartouches"  is  located  here  than  that 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

the  battle  marked  the  downfall  of  Napoleon  the  Third. 
Thus  one  may,  it  seems,  win  fame  by  the  making  of 
pictures,  as  well  as  by  the  making  of  surrenders. 

I  was  fortunate  in  entering  the  forest  from  the 
side  of  France,  because  from  here  there  is  only  the 
diligence;  and,  as  to  the  charm  of  Europe,  it  is  still 
true  that  they  who  seek  it  diligencely  shall  find  it. 

I  went  out  before  breakfast  to  arrange  for  the 
box  seat  with  the  driver  of  the  diligence;  an  extra- 
ordinarily small  vehicle  considering  that  it  was  in- 
tended for  carrying  the  public,  and  yet  quite  large 
enough,  as  it  turned  out,  to  carry  the  very  few  of  the 
public,  farmers  or  woodsmen,  who  wanted  to  go. 

It  was  some  time  after  leaving  Sedan  before  the 
actual  forest  was  reached.  A  long  white  road  leads 
up,  and  a  long  white  road  twists  down,  and  a  valley 
village  is  reached — Givonne,  the  center  of  the 
French  position  on  the  battle  day,  and  on  that 
account  possessing  a  dignity  which  its  aspect  would 
not  otherwise  command.  Continuing,  trees  more  and 
and  more  take  the  place  of  fields;  yet  always  in 
Ardennes  one  is  likely  to  come  where  peasants 
arduously  enforce  a  living  from  the  meagre  land. 
The  Belgian  frontier  is  passed,  and  scores  of  trees, 
toppled  over  by  a  recent  hurricane,  show  that  the 
forest  is  not  always  a  place  to  lose  and  neglect  the 
creeping  hours  of  time,  but  has  likewise  a  savage- 
ness  in  its  nature  which  both  Shakespeare  and 
Ariosto  recognized. 

[120] 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

Oak  and  beech  and  aspen  and  willow,  heath  and 
pasture,  a  lone  village  or  some  solitary  inn,  the 
ever-recurring  forest  greenery  hemming  the  long 
white  roads,  and  the  town  of  Godfrey  of  Bouillon 
is  reached,  and  the  diligence  rattles  noisily  under  the 
silent  walls  of  the  great  castle. 

It  was  tremendously  impressive  to  realize  that 
the  castle  from  which  the  great  King  of  Jerusalem 
went  forth  to  the  Crusades  that  made  him  immortal 
was  still  existent,  and  that  I  was  actually  looking  at 
it.  The  name  of  Godfrey  of  Bouillon  had  been 
familiar  from  boyhood,  and  yet  I  had  never  thought 
of  there  being  any  castle  of  his  name.  Bouillon  is 
never  mentioned  in  books  except  as  a  name  of 
centuries  past;  yet  here  it  is,  dark,  frowning,  digni- 
fied, and  very,  very  old. 

The  castle  and  town  of  Bouillon  are  nooked  in  a 
bending  hollow  with  the  Semois  sweeping  circum- 
fluent, like  the  Lehigh  at  Mauch  Chunk.  Lofty 
hills  rise  on  either  side;  and  from  its  rocky  perch 
upon  a  river-bound  peninsula  the  castle  looks  down 
at  the  town. 

At  the  hotel  I  early  met  with  an  example  of  the 
eternal  differences  that  come  from  view-points 
variant,  for  "This  town  is  unfortunately,"  said  my 
host,  with  wistfulness,  "off  the  beaten  track." 
As  if  that  could  be  a  misfortune! 

As  he  mounted  the  stair  to  show  me  to  the  room 
to  which  the  third  Napoleon  was  brought  after  the 

[121] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

surrender,  "The  Emperor,"  said  he,  explanatorily, 
but  in  innocence  of  any  knowledge  of  our  expressive 
Americanisms,  "was  in  Bouillon  after  Sedan." 

A  Godfrey  goes  out  from  Bouillon  to  endless  fame; 
a  Napoleon  goes  out  from  Bouillon  to  die  in  humilia- 
tion. And  it  is  really  astonishing  that  this  still 
solitary,  this  still  isolated  region  should  for  cen- 
turies have  had  intermittent  connection  with  names 
great  in  history  or  in  literature — Louis  XIV,  Henry 
of  Navarre,  Charlemagne,  Godfrey  of  Bouillon, 
Richelieu,  the  third  Napoleon,  Ariosto,  Shakespeare, 
Scott.  In  this  section  of  the  forest,  with  Bouillon 
as  its  center,  there  are  probably  no  more  people 
than  there  were  at  the  time  of  the  first  Crusade; 
yet  it  is  near  great  routes  of  travel,  near  great  cities. 

Ordinarily,  a  castle  in  a  forest  would  seem  an 
incongruity;  but  here  it  is  of  the  forest's  very  essence. 
One  might  almost  say  that  the  castle  of  Bouillon 
has  been  here  longer  than  the  forest,  so  many  de- 
cades before  Godfrey's  time  was  its  construction 
begun — certainly,  it  has  been  here  for  longer  than 
any  tree  now  standing — and  in  the  time  of  Quentin 
Durward  a  De  la  Marck,  a  wild  boar  of  Ardennes, 
actually  held  it.  For  Godfrey  mortgaged  it  (modern 
touch!)  to  secure  money  for  his  expedition  to  Pales- 
tine, and  on  that  account  it  drifted,  after  his  death, 
into  devious  channels  of  possession. 

I  have  never  received  so  tremendous  an  impres- 
sion of  feudalism  as  in  this  ancient  pile,  rising  black 

[122] 


THE  CASTLE  or  GODFREY  DE  BOUILLON 


• 


y  Shalu 
with  Bouillon 
more  people 

ould  s< 

e  of  Boui; 
o  many  de- 

' 

3  boar  of  Arder 

- 

I,  after 

us  an  imp 
sing  black 

;;T 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

above  the  white  houses  of  the  town.  It  is  not  that 
it  displays  the  magnitude,  the  parade,  of  a  Heidel- 
berg or  a  Loches,  but  that  so  much  of  the  outward 
has  been  shorn  away  in  the  course  of  successive 
ownerships  and  sieges  as  to  concentrate  attention 
upon  the  immense  extent  of  the  subterranean. 
Partly,  the  impression  was  due  to  the  situation  of 
the  castle,  in  the  midst  of  the  lonely  forest  and  hills, 
and  partly  to  my  going  through  it  when  no  one  else 
was  within  its  vast  extent  but  the  ancient  guide. 
The  seneschal  of  a  ruin  should  always  be  an  old 
man,  for  congruence,  or  a  young  girl,  for  contrast. 

There  is  a  vivid  terror  in  the  heart  of  the  rock, 
tunnelled  and  dungeoned  far  below  the  castle  walls. 
There  are  doleful  cells  of  darkness,  and  torture 
chambers,  and  a  dreadful  oubliette  which  yields 
the  secrets  of  its  construction  to  a  great  blaze  of 
paper,  and  ever  the  passages  go  in  grim  convolu- 
tions. "The  very  devil  couldn't  find  his  way  out 
of  here,"  said  the  old  man  chucklingly;  and  then  his 
voice  shrilled  on  about  the  kings  and  dukes  and  their 
doings  in  the  dark  backward  of  time.  "It  is  like  an 
ant-hill,"  he  quavered,  leading  the  way  into  a  tunnel 
which  went  twisting  far  downward.  And  ever  and 
anon  we  were  for  a  brief  space  above,  and  there  were 
fair  and  lovely  views  from  casement  or  battlement 
above  those  haunting  secrets.  And  on  the  ramparts 
the  old  man  swung  the  clapper  of  a  bell  which  has 
knelled  to  war  or  to  church  throughout  nine  centuries. 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

Yet  feudalism  was  not  all  terror  and  severity. 
It  was  terror  for  enemies  and  protection  for  friends. 
A  street  which  still  follows  its  ancient  line  and  clings 
at  the  base  of  the  castle  rock  shows  by  its  very  atti- 
tude of  trustfulness  that  it  considered  the  castle  to 
be  its  defender.  And,  in  those  old  times,  should 
one's  natural  protector  fail  to  protect,  any  inhabit- 
ant of  Ardennes  seeking  justice  needed  but  to  go  to 
the  palace  of  the  Bishop  of  Liege,  and  knock  thrice 
with  the  great  swinging  iron  that  was  bolted  upon 
the  door,  and  the  bishop  himself  would  answer  the 
summons,  and  hear  the  complaint,  and  demand  an 
explanation  from  the  oppressor,  and  render  a  decree; 
and  that  decree  did  not  lightly  pass  unheeded,  for 
behind  it  stood  the  power  of  the  Church. 

The  town  of  Bouillon  is  comparatively  modern; 
but  there  are  still  old  houses  hidden  unobtrusively 
away,  and  still  there  stand  six-sided  towers  marking 
corners  of  the  old  town  walls.  And  there  are  queer 
places  to  unearth:  ancient  caves  in  the  rock,  and 
remains  of  primitive  structures,  beneath  or  behind 
houses  of  more  recent  times.  By  mere  chance,  in  a 
little  shop  in  one  of  these  newer  buildings,  I  saw  a 
hollow  in  the  rock,  and  there  was  a  running  spring, 
and  beside  it  was  an  old-time  officially  inscribed  stone 
of  the  long-past  Duchy  of  Bouillon,  and  in  the 
stone  was  a  hole  for  the  measurement  of  money 
as  a  safeguard  against  clipping. 

Life  is  placid  in  Bouillon.     Business  is  not  im- 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

portunate,  a  wagon  seldom  rattles  over  the  stone- 
paved  streets,  boys  lean  interminably  over  the 
ancient  bridge  of  stone,  gossiping  women  are  ever 
kneeling  by  the  riverside,  giving  what  is  next  to 
godliness  to  the  linen  of  the  town.  The  very  funerals 
are  tranquilly  picturesque,  for  the  mourners  still 
follow  on  foot  up  the  avenue  of  trees,  whose  clipped 
tops  lace  and  intertwine,  which  once  led  to  a  monas- 
tery, long  since  destroyed. 

But  if  one  does  not  care  for  the  town  of  Bouillon, 
in  five  minutes  he  may  be  hundreds  of  years  away, 
in  the  castle,  or  hundreds  of  miles  away,  in  the 
forest.  And  in  spite  of  the  interest  of  the  home 
of  Godfrey  it  is  principally  for  the  forest  that  one 
comes  here. 

And  it  needs  to  be  said  that  Shakespeare  un- 
doubtedly meant  this  Ardennes — this  Arden,  as  he 
anglicized  the  name — for  it  has  been  generally 
claimed  that  he  had  in  mind  an  imaginary  forest 
or  a  little  Arden  in  England. 

But  he  had  in  mind  no  imaginary  forest.  He 
loved  history,  and  he  loved  geography,  and  he 
therefore  loved  to  give  his  plays  a  local  habitation 
and  a  name.  He  loved  to  specify  Venice  and  Padua 
and  London,  the  Temple  Gardens,  Black  Angers, 
and  the  Forest  of  Arden.  Had  he  wished  to  write 
of  the  forest  of  an  imaginary  Zenda  he  was  suffi- 
ciently master  of  the  language  to  have  made  his 
meaning  clear. 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

He  may  never  have  seen  Ardennes,  but  at  least 
he  was  acquainted  with  the  forest  from  cotem- 
poraries  and  predecessors.  And  it  is  possible  that 
he  was  here.  He  travelled;  and  no  one  knows,  no 
one  will  ever  know,  whither  he  travelled  or  what  he 
saw.  And  assuredly  it  will  not  be  declared  that  he, 
of  all  men,  would  never  step  aside  from  what  were 
even  in  his  day  the  familiar  routes. 

And  it  is  certain  that  he  did  not  mean  the  little 
Arden  in  England.  That  there  is  an  English  Arden 
is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  for  many  a  geographical 
name  was  carried  across  the  Channel  from  the 
Continent;  but  everything  in  the  play  points  to  a 
region  at  the  edge  of  France  and  not  separated 
from  it  by  water. 

Shakespeare  constantly  writes  as  if  the  forest  is 
on  the  French  border.  He  portrays  Rosalind  and 
Celia  as  wearily  walking  to  it  from  their  French 
home.  His  description  of  Duke  Frederick  leading 
his  army  to  the  skirts  of  the  wood  clearly  points 
out  that  he  means  the  Ardennes  that  is  beside 
France. 

In  all  this  Shakespeare  follows  Thomas  Lodge. 
Lodge  wrote  a  novel  about  Ardennes,  a  story  with 
whose  lilting  prolixity  one  might  even  now  be 
happy  if  the  other  charmer  were  away.  With  Lodge, 
"Rosylind  and  Alinda  travailed  along  the  Vine- 
yards, and  by  many  bywaies;  and  at  last  got  to  the 
Forrest  side,  where  they  travailed  by  the  space  of 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

two  or  three  dales  without  seeing  anie  creature, 
being  often  in  danger  of  wilde  beasts,  and  payned 
with  many  sorrowes." 

Lodge's  story  quickly  ran  through  several  editions, 
and  Shakespeare  dramatized  it,  and  thus  gave  it 
popularity  anew.  And,  of  course,  it  was  no  more 
plagiarism  than  is  the  dramatization  of  the  popular 
novel  of  to-day. 

Ardennes,  on  the  borders  of  France,  and  Rosalind 
and  Celia,  and  the  brother  dukes,  and  the  wrestling, 
and  the  banishment,  all  are  Lodge's,  with  some  of  the 
names  a  trifle  changed  for  effectiveness.  But  the 
inimitable  Jacques  and  Touchstone  and  the  splendid 
poetry  of  it  all  are  Shakespeare's  own. 

Seldom  have  I  spent  more  enjoyable  days  than 
those  in  Shakespeare's  Arden.  For  charm  and 
romance  are  still  there,  and  the  boar  and  the  wild 
deer  are  there,  and  Corin  and  Phebe  and  Silvius, 
and  shepherds  with  their  cotes,  their  flocks,  their 
bounds  of  feed.  The  banished  duke  and  his  com- 
panions, in  modern  guise,  still  hunt  the  forest  glades, 
and  "fleet  the  time  carelessly,  as  they  did  in  the 
golden  world."  Nay,  I  even  met  Touchstone  him- 
self, as  if  he  had  stepped  from  an  old  Shakspearean 
print.  "A  fool,  a  motley  fool."  Thus  he  was 
garbed,  with  cap  of  points  and  clothing  striped. 
But,  alas!  he  would  naught  of  wit  or  philosophy. 
He  had  married  and  settled  here,  as  Shakespeare 
foresaw,  and  marriage  had  changed  him,  as  it  has 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

changed  many  another  man.  Where  be  his  jibes 
now,  his  flashes  of  merriment?  Yet  he  would  have 
me  know  that  he  worked  hard,  here  in  his  garden, 
and  was  content;  and  thereby  he  seems  to  have  at- 
tained the  highest  of  philosophy,  after  all. 

I  was  in  Ardennes  in  the  idyllic  glory  of  early 
spring.  A  tender  warmth  was  in  the  air,  and  the 
forest,  after  the  long  unresponsiveness  of  winter, 
was  with  shy  generosity  giving  promise  of  loving 
opulence  to  come.  The  fields  were  pied  with  the 
earliest  daisies,  buttercups  and  violets  painted  the 
meadows  with  delight,  the  first  birds  were  singing, 
and  the  trees  were  gently  unfolding  their  first  buds. 
It  was  the  sweet  and  happy  Arden  of  the  sweet  and 
happy  comedy. 

Guide-books  and  atlases  use  the  term  "Ardennes" 
with  somewhat  of  unavoidable  vagueness.  Origin- 
ally this  forest  extended  not  only  over  a  great  part 
of  Belgium,  but  stretched  also  into  France  and 
toward  the  eastward.  It  is  curious  that  at  the  very 
time  that  Shakespeare  was  writing  plays  Henry  of 
Navarre  marched  a  force  to  the  capture  of  Sedan, 
which  was  then  within  the  forest  boundary.  Clumps 
of  Ardennes  woodland  still  break  the  levels  of 
Champagne;  there  are  remains  of  it  in  Luxembourg; 
and  there  are  still  great  forest  masses  in  central 
Belgium,  dotted  with  cities  and  intersected  by 
railways.  But  the  present  center  of  Ardennes  is 
here,  round  about  Bouillon,  along  the  line  of  the 

[128] 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

Semois,  and  it  comprises  a  wide  area  of  hill,  of  river 
valley,  of  undulating  plateau,  of  upland  heath. 
And  it  is  this  very  part,  isolated  as  it  still  is,  with 
which  most  of  the  great  names  that  are  connected 
with  the  forest  have  had  their  association. 

Once  in  the  forest,  one  is  continually  charmed 
by  the  hills  and  the  river.  Never,  surely,  was  there 
another  stream  of  such  uncontrolled  meanderings. 
The  course  of  the  Semois  is  a  succession  of  great 
serpentining  bends;  and  when  you  have  for  a  long 
time  missed  it,  and  think  that  it  has  finally  wan- 
dered away,  it  comes  purring  softly  back,  around 
some  delectable  bend. 

It  is  a  charming  country  for  motoring,  but  the 
automobilist  who  penetrates  here  must  cultivate 
resignation,  for  he  will  frequently  find  a  well  macad- 
amized road  end  suddenly  in  a  mere  trail.  Fully  to 
enjoy  this  forest,  one  must  be  somewhat  of  a  pedes- 
trian, for  many  of  the  most  charming  routes  are 
footpaths  only;  and  so  intricately  do  these  paths 
convolute  in  making  (contradictory  as  it  seems) 
short  cuts  from  village  to  village,  that  no  one  ever 
tries  to  direct  a  stranger  beyond  the  first  turn,  but 
leaves  him  to  proceed  after  that  as  fate  and  fancy 
lead.  And  it  is  delightful  to  wander  at  random 
through  great  groves  of  glimmering  birch,  past  the 
brook  that  brawls  along  the  road,  the  oak  whose 
antique  roots  peep  out,  the  rank  of  osiers  by  the 
murmuring  stream;  charming  to  be  obscured  in  the 

[129] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

circle  of  the  forest  and  to  know  that  it  is  the  forest 
of  Shakespeare. 

The  people  who  dwell  in  the  little  villages  which 
are  so  sparingly  interspersed  are  a  simple,  hardy 
folk,  Walloons,  descendants  from  an  ancestry  of 
bravery,  and  active,  dark-featured,  inclined  to 
shortness,  ready  at  times  for  gayety,  but,  as  is  natu- 
ral to  those  who  live  in  loneliness,  mostly  silent  or 
of  few  words.  And,  in  spite  of  the  disappearance, 
as  in  most  of  Europe,  of  much  of  the  distinctive 
costuming  of  the  past,  there  are  still  the  kirtle  of 
green,  the  sash  of  blue  or  red,  stockings  of  purple 
and  shoes  of  wood,  the  agricultural  blouse,  the 
paniered  back,  and  horses  tasselled  and  belled. 

The  people  are  herdsmen,  shepherds,  farmers  of 
the  thinnish  soil  and  woodcutters.  Trees  are  grown 
in  Ardennes  for  the  market,  as  in  other  regions  there 
are  corn  and  oats.  The  forest  is  carefully  culti- 
vated and  kept  free  from  underbrush,  and,  although 
there  are  still  many  trees  of  great  girth,  the  larger 
part  of  the  forest  is  not  of  huge  growth. 

The  houses  of  the  forest  villages  are  broad- 
gabled  and  low,  and  of  stone  that  is  black  with 
age.  Broad  they  must  needs  be,  for  under  each  roof 
is  a  heterogeneous  huddle  of  men  and  women  and 
children,  cows  and  goats,  rabbits  and  chickens, 
and  geese  and  dogs.  And  it  is  in  itself  a  proof  of 
the  length  of  time  that  this  has  been  forest  that 
the  dogs  bear  a  curious  likeness  to  wolves. 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

Even  in  Bouillon  itself — a  place  which,  with  its 
fewer  than  three  thousand  population,  would  else- 
where be  deemed  small,  but  which  looms  large  as  the 
principal  town  of  what  is  left  isolated  of  Ardennes — 
many  a  house  is  a  Noah's  Ark  in  its  population,  al- 
though the  newer  look  of  the  houses  at  first  con- 
ceals the  fact.  After  all,  these  people  and  their 
livestock  have  been  living  for  centuries  in  friendly 
juxtaposition,  and  an  inheritedly  ingrained  habit 
is  not  lightly  lost. 

"These  are  the  hills,  these  are  the  woods,  these 
are  the  starry  solitudes;  and  there  the  river  by  whose 
brink  the  roaring  lion  comes  to  drink."  For  Shake- 
speare even  puts  a  lion  here,  and  it  has  caused  end- 
less trouble.  Scott,  when  he  committed  an  an- 
achronism or  an  anachorism,  always  appended  a 
peccavi  note;  but  Shakespeare,  never;  he  divined 
what  his  commentators  were  to  do  in  the  way  of 
notes  and  would  not  willingly  add  his  own  straws 
to  the  load  of  posterity. 

As  to  that  lion,  it  might  be  enough  to  claim 
poetic  license;  to  point  out  that  when  Ariosto  sent 
his  Rinaldo  through  Ardennes,  on  his  journey  from 
Paris  to  Basle,  he  had  him  meet  in  this  forest  an 
uncanny  monster  with  a  thousand  eyes.  But  Shake- 
speare frankly  took  his  lion  from  Thomas  Lodge. 

In  this  forest  of  Shakespeare's  the  regular  roads 
and  paths  may  often  be  followed  for  miles  without 
meeting  a  human  being.  There  is  a  deep  loneliness 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

away  from  the  villages ;  and,  as  Touchstone  remarked, 
"In  respect  that  it  is  solitary,  I  like  it  very  well." 
From  lofty  summits  the  view  seems  one  of  wilder- 
ness illimitable.  When  the  uncertain  glory  of  an 
April  day  changes  to  sudden  storm,  the  rolling 
thunder  goes  echoing  distantly  among  the  hills. 
In  the  heart  of  the  forest  I  have  come  unexpectedly 
upon  a  charming  and  solitary  mill.  One  day  I 
chanced  upon  a  Trappist  monastery.  "  It  is  desolate 
here  in  winter  when  the  north  wind  blows,"  said  one 
of  the  monks  drearily. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  it  would  be  of  peculiar 
interest  to  attend  an  Easter  service  in  the  very 
shadow  of  the  castle  from  which  the  greatest  of  all 
Crusaders  marched  out  for  the  recovery  of  that 
sepulchre  without  whose  story  there  would  be  no 
Easter  to  celebrate.  It  was  merely  chance  that 
had  put  me  there  at  Easter  time;  and  it  was  unex- 
pected and  unhoped  for  good  fortune  that,  entirely 
to  my  surprise,  gave  not  only  an  Easter  service  but 
also  a  Passion  Play. 

It  was,  as  the  plain  little  program  had  it,  a 

REPRESENTATION 

DES 

MYSTERES  DE  LA  PASSION 

DE 

NOTRE  SEIGNEUR  JESUS-CHRIST 

[132] 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden 

There  were  sixteen  elaborately  prepared  scenes 
given  by  one  hundred  Biblically  costumed  charac- 
ters; or,  to  quote  again  from  the  program,  it  was  a 

GRAND    DRAME    BIBLIQUE    EN    16   ACTES 

ALLANT  DE  L'ENTREE  DE  JESUS  A  JERUSA- 
LEM JUSQU'AU  CRUCIFIEMENT 

100  ACTEURS  Y  PRENNENT  PART 

The  audience  was  not  large,  and  the  people  found 
agreeable  enjoyment.  It  did  not  seem  to  occur  to 
them  that  the  play  bore  religious  significance; 
there  was  no  irreverence;  it  was  merely  that  they 
did  not  understand  that  reverence  was  expected; 
it  was  six  long  hours  of  singing  and  costumes,  of 
picking  out  their  neighbors  beneath  great  wigs 
or  behind  false  beards;  it  was  a  show  in  a  show- 
less  town,  and  those  who  know  only  cities  do  not 
understand  the  pathetic  excitement  of  such  a  con- 
dition. 

And  so,  human  nature  being  everywhere  the  same, 
the  people  enjoyed  the  representation  with  the 
unrepressed  pleasure  of  children;  they  will  soon 
enough  learn  to  look  unnaturally  grave  if  the  repre- 
sentation begins  to  attract  annual  visitors.  The 
young  girls  were  the  sweet  and  natural  part  of  it; 
the  men  and  boys  were  inclined  to  frolic  a  little  be- 
hind the  scenes  as  an  offset  to  stage  stiltedness. 

[133] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

And  in  all  it  was  a  striking  experience  to  see  the 
Jerusalem  scenes  thus  acted  and  thus  received  under 
the  walls  of  the  castle  of  Jerusalem's  king. 

Even  at  the  regular  Easter  service,  which  pre- 
ceded the  play,  the  satisfaction  had  to  come  mainly 
from  the  feeling  that  it  was  an  Easter  service,  and 
in  that  place.  The  church  was  abloom  with  the 
flowers  from  new  Easter  hats!  Thus  far  has  fashion 
penetrated.  And  the  hats  were  of  a  kind  that  may 
be  bought  on  Grand  Street. 

The  service  was  of  simple  solemnity;  the  red- 
clothed  Suisse  deeming  himself  a  weighty  part  of  it, 
as  he  decrepitly  marched  about,  proud  of  being  the 
only  man  in  church  permitted  to  wear  a  hat,  and 
proud,  poor  old  fellow,  of  a  childish  medal,  pinned 
prominent,  lauding  him  for  "good  conduct  and 
morality." 

The  church  itself  is  Victorian,  expressed  in  terms 
Walloon.  "An  unattractive  building  in  an  attrac- 
tive location,"  said  the  priest  quietly,  pacing  the 
terrace  with  me.  It  was  in  my  heart  to  reassure  him, 
but  I  refrained;  I  could  only  speak  of  the  general 
charm  of  the  country. 

But  he  seemed  touched  with  a  gentle  melan- 
choly. "Yes,  monsieur,  it  is  beautiful";  he  shook 
his  head,  reflective,  dubious;  "it  is,  as  you  say, 
beautiful;  but  the  people,  to  them  it  is  only  hab- 
itude." 

And   so,    having   begun   by   finding   Touchstone, 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden. 

I  was  thus  to  end  by  finding  Jacques.     For  this  is 
the  Forest  of  Arden! 


X.     FREE    AND    INDEPENDENT 
LUXEMBOURG 

IRECTLY  between  Paris  and 
Berlin;  only  a  hair's  breadth, 
indeed,  away  from  a  straight 
line  drawn  between  these 
two  cities,  there  lies  a  little 
and  independent  country.  By  Amer- 
icans it  has  been  inexplicably  over- 
looked. It  contains  a  multitude  of 
ruined  castles,  perched  craggily.  It 
is  of  the  diverting  area  of  nine  hun- 
dred and  ninety-nine  square  miles. 
It  presents  phases  of  thriving  modern  life,  yet  there 
are  extensive  sections  of  wooded  wilderness.  In  its 
wildest  part  I  have  seen  the  wild  deer  as  I  drove 
along  the  public  road.  It  is  saturated  with  historic 
association.  There  are  regions  of  delectable  charm. 
Its  people  take  their  autonomy  with  great  serious- 
ness, yet  with  the  subtle  sense  of  a  jest  in  it  all. 

Although  this  almost  unnoticed  Grossherzogthum 
of  Luxembourg,  this  Grand-Duchy,  is  in  the  very 
heart  of  most-travelled  Europe,  one  may  for  a 
few  francs  and  with  the  formality  of  an-  invitation 
join  in  the  annual  official  chase  of  wild  boar!  A 
few  dollars  buys  a  license  to  hunt  deer.  At  an  inn 
one  may  find  the  right  to  miles  of  fishing  included 
with  room  and  food. 


Free  and  Independent  Luxembourg 

Luxembourg  is  not  really  difficult  to  reach. 
One  notices  again,  however,  that  there  are  dis- 
tances in  Europe  and  that  trains  are  easy-going. 
Luxembourg,  the  capital  of  Luxembourg,  is  a  trifle 
over  250  miles  from  Paris  by  rail,  and  the  trains 
have  fairly  good  connections.  It  is  about  as  far 
from  Brussels.  It  is  farther  from  Berlin.  From 
the  Forest  of  Arden,  where  I  was  when  I  wished  to 
go  to  Luxembourg,  I  had  the  choice  of  diligencing 
back  to  Sedan  and  there  getting  a  train  to  take  me 
fifty  miles,  or  of  changing  cars  at  Longuyon,  which 
is  forty  miles  from  Luxembourg. 

Luxembourg  would  not  even  now  be  independent 
had  not  Queen  Wilhelmina  been  a  girl.  It  would 
have  remained  a  province  of  the  Netherlands, 
although  hedged  in  (such,  again,  the  bewilderment 
of  it)  by  Germany  and  Belgium  and  France.  But 
its  constitution  makes  the  succession  hereditary 
in  the  male  line  of  Nassau,  and  so  at  Wilhelmina's 
accession  it  eluded  her  grasp  and  placidly  entered 
the  family  circle  of  independent  European  coun- 
tries; not  large  for  its  age,  this  new  member,  for  its 
size  is  less  than  a  twelfth  part  that  of  tiny  Holland. 

The  Grand-Duke  William,  who  died  only  last 
year,  had  six  children,  all  girls,  and  there  were  no 
other  heirs.  This  failure  of  the  male  line  threat- 
ened the  loss  of  Luxembourg's  independence,  where- 
upon there  was  invoked  a  constitutional  interpreta- 
tion not  vouchsafed  to  pretty  Wilhelmina — an  in- 

[i37]  ' 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

terpretation  that  permitted  of  female  succession, 
after  all;  and  the  oldest  of  the  six  daughters  became 
Grand-Duchess.  She  is  just  nineteen  years  old, 
and  her  name  is  Marie  Adelaide  Therese  Hilda 
Antoinette  Wilhelmine,  and  she  is  not  only  Grand- 
Duchess  of  Luxembourg,  but  the  Duchess  of  Nas- 
sau, Countess  Palatine  of  the  Rhine,  Konigstein, 
Katzeneinbogen  and  Dietz,  Burggravine  of  Ham- 
merstein,  and  so  on,  such  being  among  the  nomen- 
clatural  privileges  of  the  nobility. 

The  people  are  resolved  to  give  no  pretext  for 
the  seizing  of  their  land  by  France  or  Prussia,  and 
especially  by  Prussia.  The  bells  of  the  capital  city 
ring  out,  preliminary  to  the  striking  of  the  hours, 
not  the  grave  chorals  heard  from  the  church  towers  of 
other  parts  of  Europe,  but  this  or  that  gay  selection 
from  opera  or  song,  and  nothing  is  so  popular  as  the 
much-beloved  tune,  chimed  with  dangerous  gusto, 
"Wir  wollen  bleiben  was  wir  sindl  Wir  w  oil  en 
keine  Preussen  sein!"  (We  will  remain  as  we  are! 
We  will  not  be  Prussians!)  Thus  with  character- 
istic lightheartedness  they  daringly  jest  with  what 
they  dread. 

Luxembourg,  the  capital  of  Luxembourg,  is  set 
proudly  upon  a  plateau  girdled  by  precipices  two 
hundred  feet  in  height.  Rivers  wind  circumfluent 
at  the  foot  of  the  rocks,  and  from  the  boulevarded 
brink  there  are  alluring  views. 

Until  less  than  fifty  years  ago  the  city  was  of  a 


Free  and  Independent  Luxembourg 

strength  only  second  to  that  of  Gibraltar,  but  by 
the  Treaty  of  London,  of  1867,  the  powers  decreed 
that  the  Duchy  should  thenceforth  be  neutral,  al- 
though it  was  a  province  of  Holland,  and  that  the 
fortifications  of  the  capital  should  be  destroyed. 
For  centuries  the  city  held  a  proud  distinction, 
under  the  oft-alternating  rule  of  France,  Germany, 
Austria,  the  Netherlands,  and  Spain;  and  the  change 
has  not  come  in  order  that  nation  shall  not  lift  up 
sword  against  nation,  but  only  that  in  case  of  war 
great  armies  may  maneuver  without  the  check  in- 
herent in  the  very  presence  at  this  central  spot  of  a 
powerful  stronghold. 

And  so,  the  splendid  haughtiness  has  gone,  and 
only  fragments  of  the  fortifications  remain.  But 
what  fragments!  Rocks  honeycombed  with  pas- 
sages and  pierced  with  embrasures;  grim  piles  of 
stone;  and  here  and  there,  projecting  over  the  edges 
of  the  cliff,  the  noble  Spanish  Towers. 

The  powers  decreed,  too,  that  the  army  be  re- 
duced to  a  paltry  three  hundred,  and  the  inhibition 
still  holds.  But  the  happy  people,  making  a  jest  of 
necessity,  smile  when  the  handful  march  along  with 
pomp  of  colors  and  blare  of  music;  some  sixth  of  the 
total  army  being  band.  But,  with  saving  sense  of 
humor,  there  is  no  extravagance  of  military  title, 
and  the  commander-in-chief  is  but  a  major. 

The  decrees  of  the  great  powers  may  not  be  defied 
with  impunity,  for,  after  all,  the  little  countries  like 

[139] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

Holland  and  Belgium  and  Andorra  and  Liechtenstein 
and  Luxembourg  preserve  their  independence  only 
on  sufferance  and  at  the  price  of  a  readiness  to  bow 
to  the  will  of  their  powerful  and  mutually  jealous 
neighbors.  It  is  well  when,  as  with  the  cheerful 
folk  of  Luxembourg,  the  humors  of  their  situation 
are  appreciated.  Smite  Luxembourg  anywhere  and 
humor  bubbles  forth. 

The  fire  department  of  the  capital,  and  its  hand 
apparatus  and  the  few  demands  upon  it,  are  one  of 
the  local  jokes;  but  one  of  the  fire  officials,  fearful 
lest  I  should  belittle  the  basic  importance  of  it  all, 
told  me,  with  paradoxical  pride,  that  a  few  years  ago 
the  city  had  "one  of  the  biggest  fires  in  Europe"! 

Once  a  year,  through  the  streets  of  the  capital, 
goes  the  unique  March  of  the  Muttons;  a  puzzled 
clump  of  snow-white  lambs  making  their  way 
through  the  amused  and  thronging  people,  close 
followed  by  volunteer  musicians  playing  the  ancient 
Mutton  March. 

Luxembourg  must  assuredly  be  the  place  to  which 
the  Pied  Piper  led  the  bewitched  children,  such  a 
gay  and  a  dancing  folk  these  are. 

On  the  evening  of  my  arrival  the  people  were 
celebrating  the  birthday  of  their  ruler;  they  had 
really  begun  the  day  before,  but  had  found  one  day 
insufficient  for  the  expression  of  their  jubilance. 
It  was  raining,  but  the  population  thronged  the 
streets  oblivious.  A  band  was  playing,  and  there,  in 

[140] 


A  TOWERED  GATEWAY  LEFT  FROM  OLD  FORTIFICATIONS 


> 


• 

1,  and  its  hand 

inds  upon  it,  are  one  of 

re  officials,  fearful 

portance  of  it.aH> 

iat  a  few  years  ago 

Europ 

ts  of  the  ca 

uttons;  a  puzzled 

a  king    their    way 

people,   close 

ians  playing  the  ancient 

ce  to  v 


were 

i •  ir  ruler;    they 
lad  found  one  day 

beir   ji 
I 


T  A 


Free  and  Independent  Luxembourg 

the  open  square,  a  great  number  were  dancing  in  the 
rain,  some  holding  umbrellas  and  some  not. 

The  Grand-Duchess  and  her  sisters  dwell  in  what 
was  a  beautiful  oriel-windowed  palace,  which  has 
in  recent  years  been  unimprovingly  enlarged.  Her 
people  love  her,  and  not  only  because  she  is  a  woman, 
but  because  Luxembourg  always  did  love  the  titled. 
Long  ago  the  little  country  took  the  side  of  Spain 
against  the  Netherlands.  It  sided  with  Louis  the 
Sixteenth  against  the  Revolution,  and  thereby 
suffered  wild  devastation. 

A  city  of  some  twenty  thousand  this  capital, 
and  there  are  other  and  smaller  towns,  as,  narrow- 
valleyed  Vianden,  on  either  side  of  which  the  moun- 
tains rise  in  mellow  walls;  Diekirch,  set  beside  a 
smiling  river,  with  glimmering  meadows  sentinelled 
by  lofty  heights;  Echternach,  where,  once  a  year, 
on  Whit-Tuesday,  the  Dancing  Procession  gathers 
from  ten  to  twenty  thousand,  mostly  pilgrims  from 
distant  places,  under  its  rhythmic  spell,  to  sway  in 
spiritual  ecstasy  through  the  streets,  three  steps  for- 
ward and  two  back,  to  the  monotonous  tune  of 
"Adam,  he  had  seven  sons,"  just  as  pilgrims  have  done 
here  for  a  thousand  years.  There  are  interesting 
little  villages  away  from  the  railroad.  There  is  much 
of  shadowy  forest.  There  are  serpentizing  streams  in 
such  number  that  one  ceases  to  attempt  differentia- 
tion. There  are  quarries  and  iron  mines,  but  the  prin- 
cipal material  interests  are  agricultural. 

[Hi] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

It  is  the  pride  of  Luxembourg  that  the  principal 
reward  of  those  who  handle  the  public  money  con- 
sists in  honorable  decoration,  and  that  there  is  con- 
sequently no  embezzlement  of  public  funds.  "Why, 
if  one  were  to  steal  he  could  have  no  decoration ! " 
such  is  their  naive  viewpoint  in  this  century  of 
"high-finance." 

Under  the  Grand-Duchess  is  a  Chamber  of 
Deputies,  of  forty-eight  members,  chosen  by  the 
suffrages  of  such  men  of  over  twenty-five  as  pay  an 
annual  tax  of  ten  francs.  The  Duchess  has  the 
power  of  veto,  but  that  is  but  another  Luxembourg 
joke,  for  she,  like  her  father  and  her  father's  father, 
never  uses  it. 

But  between  the  Chamber  and  the  Duchess,  lest 
there  should  be  too  much  of  democracy,  there  is  a 
Court;  and  it  is  a  court  of  title  and  ceremony. 

There  is  a  grand-chamberlain;  there  are  other 
chamberlains,  with  equerries  and  aides-de-camp,  and 
a  mare'chal  de  la  cour;  there  is  a  grande-maitresse  de 
la  grande-duchesse;  there  are  dames  du  palais,  d'hon- 
neur,  du  service,  de  la  cour. 

The  national  colors  are  the  red  and  white  and 
blue;  there  are  governmental  departments  of  state, 
of  justice,  of  agriculture,  of  the  interior,  of  finance. 
The  Minister  of  State  sees  personally  the  poor  and 
the  rich  alike.  The  Department  of  Agriculture, 
alert  to  be  of  aid,  gladly  advises  any  farmer  who 
presents  a  problem  of  seed  or  season  or  soil. 


Free  and  Independent  Luxembourg 

Ordinarily,  there  is  dulness  in  statistics;  but  I 
was  really  pleased  with  the  attention  to  detail  of  the 
official  who  compiled  the  census.  Out  of  a  total 
population  of  236,543  all  are  Roman  Catholics,  with 
the  exception  of  1201  Israelites,  2269  Protestants,  49 
"other  Christians,"  and  186  who  are  rated  as  "not 
known."  At  once  one  wonders  who  and  what  are  the 
49,  and  what  is  the  religion  of  the  "not  known." 

An  anxious,  faithful,  worrying  man,  he  of  the 
Census  Bureau,  one  would  gather,  and  one  who 
leaves  loose  ends  through  very  excess  of  fussiness. 
He  finds  that  almost  all  the  inhabitants  are  natives 
of  the  duchy,  but  that  some  small  number  are 
Swiss,  German,  Russian,  or  of  other  nationalities, 
with  96  of  "nationality  not  known." 

The  total  annual  revenue  is  small — only  from  two 
to  three  million  dollars — yet  the  treasury  always 
manages  to  hold  a  little  surplus.  The  purposes  for 
which  a  state  spends  money  are  always  illuminative, 
and  here,  quoting  from  the  report  most,  recently 
published,  I  find  that  the  Chamber  of  Deputies 
costs  but  315,000;  that  prisons  demand  only  $50,000; 
the  civil  list  and  government,  $80,000;  that  religion 
and  the  army  go  hand  in  hand,  each  taking  nearly 
$100,000;  that  justice  is  given  $110,000;  pensions, 
$170,000;  and  agriculture,  commerce,  and  indus- 
tries, $200,000;  that  "interior"  expenses,  one  of  the 
items  under  which  is  that  of  police,  require  $230,000 
(New  York  City  spends  annually  on  its  police  de- 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

partment  alone  more  than  thirteen  millions  of 
dollars);  that  to  public  works  goes  over  3600,000; 
and  that,  under  the  noble  classification  of  public 
instruction  and  the  arts  and  sciences,  Luxembourg 
gladly  expends  3300,000.  The  post-office,  with  the 
cognate  branches  of  telephone  and  telegraph,  is 
not  quite  self-supporting,  it  being  the  policy  of  the 
government  to  encourage  increase  of  the  service  by 
reasonable  fees. 

On  the  whole,  a  wise  and  liberal  government, 
with  a  watchfulness  which  shows  that  the  influence 
has  not  been  forgotten  of  that  old-time  ruler  who 
was  accustomed  to  go  to  Luxembourg  in  disguise 
and  buy  fish  and  bread  so  that  he  might  detect  any 
evils,  punish  the  evil  seller,  and  give  the  food  to  the 
poor. 

I  did  not  look  into  statistics  of  marriage;  it  did  not 
seem  needful  to  do  so,  for  whenever,  which  was  often, 
I  passed  the  city  hall  of  the  capital  I  saw  the  car- 
riages of  one  or  more  wedding  parties  drawn  up  there. 
The  double  marriage,  civil  and  religious,  expands 
the  glory  of  the  day  by  giving  wider  opportunity 
to  drive  in  proud  publicity  through  the  streets. 
Sometimes  the  glory  is  spread  over  two  days.  One 
chill  morning  I  stepped  into  a  church  just  as  a  couple 
— the  bridegroom  gray-haired! — arrived.  But  the 
priest  was  not  ready,  and  so  the  impatient  two, 
with  white-clad  bridesmaids  and  black-clad  men, 
stood  patiently,  while  ever  and  anon  one  of  the 


Free  and  Independent  Luxembourg 

carriage-drivers  inquiringly  poked  in  his  head,  until 
at  last  the  priest,  kindly,  benign,  and  still  sleepy, 
appeared. 

It  is  a  land  of  amenities.  Ask  a  direction,  and  a 
man  will  quit  his  occupation  or  turn  back  in  his 
walk  to  pilot  you.  Ask  a  question  of  the  guardian 
of  the  gate  at  a  railway  station,  and  he  is  likely  to 
lock  his  gate  in  the  face  of  the  other  people  and 
hurry  off  to  find  an  answer  for  the  stranger. 

Luxembourg  for  centuries  had  an  uneasy  exist- 
ence. In  the  pathway  of  the  nations,  army  after 
army  overran  and  harried  it,  changes  of  govern- 
ment were  frequent,  shadowy  claims  and  actual 
conquests  succeeded  one  another.  It  escaped  mis- 
usage  in  the  Franco-Prussian  War,  in  spite  of  its 
situation  between  the  two  rival  capitals,  because  its 
neutrality  had  been  decreed  but  a  few  years  before. 

The  most  picturesque  of  the  men  of  Luxembourg 
was  that  John,  the  Blind  King  of  Bohemia — hered- 
itary ruler  of  Luxembourg,  setting  forth  claims 
upon  the  Bohemian  throne — who  was  slain  at  Cre'cy 
after  heroically  going  into  the  battle  linked  to  a 
knight  on  either  side.  "John  the  Errant,"  the  old 
chroniclers  term  him,  for  he  loved  to  roam  about 
Europe,  taking  part  chivalrously  in  as  many  quar- 
rels as  he  could  assume.  Even  when  blindness  came 
it  did  not  cause  him  entirely  to  cease  from  activities, 
but  permitted  him  to  end  his  career  in  unique  glory. 
In  the  hurly-burly  of  fight  it  may  not  have  been 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

possible  to  avoid  killing  him,  but  there  is  not  in  all 
history  anything  more  unchivalrous  recorded  than 
the  triumphant  taking  of  the  crest,  the  Three 
Feathers,  of  this  slain  old  blind  man,  by  the  Black 
Prince,  and  its  incorporation  with  the  arms  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales  as  something  to  be  transmitted  as  a 
proud  heritage. 

The  general  dislike  and  even  dread  of  Germany 
are  the  more  curious  because  the  Luxembourg  folk 
are  mostly  of  Teutonic  race,  and  only  secondarily 
Walloon.  More  German  than  French  is  heard,  but 
the  common  speech  is  a  patois  compounded  from 
several  languages.  Alone  among  Continental  peoples, 
so  they  believe,  they  say  "mouse"  and  "mice," 
just  as  the  English  do  (although  they  do  not  spell 
them  in  this  way),  and  of  this  apparent  connection 
with  England  they  are  inordinately  proud. 

By  diligence  or  postwagen  one  enters  little-visited 
portions  of  the  Duchy.  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to 
choose  a  time  when,  at  some  of  the  stopping-places, 
there  was  not  a  single  visitor  of  any  nationality. 
There  are,  however,  portions  that  are  freely  visited  by 
French  and  Belgians  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year. 

The  diligences  proceed  with  restful  leisure,  stop- 
ping at  every  wayside  tavern  and  many  a  house.  For 
one  family  the  driver  carries  a  loaf  of  bread;  for  an- 
other a  bottle  of  medicine,  and  here  he  makes  solici- 
tous inquiry  before  going  on;  at  another  house  he 
leaves  a  box,  in  regard  to  which  there  is  uproarious 


Free  and  Independent  Luxembourg 

but  incomprehensive  patois  of  joke:  for,  although 
one  may,  by  dint  of  great  effort,  master  the  patois, 
he  shall  never  come  to  comprehension  of  the  patois 
humor. 

One  is  given  a  general  impression  of  long  drives 
by  the  side  of  sparkling  rivers,  of  villages  strung 
attenuatedly  through  slim  valleys,  of  idyllic  glades 
where  women  tend  the  grazing  flocks,  of  two-wheeled 
ox-drawn  carts,  of  old,  old  houses,  where  ancient 
women  offer  snuff  from  ancient  boxes,  and  where 
there  are  black-mouthed  fire-places,  and  enormous 
beams,  and  winding  stairs  of  stone,  and  carven 
doors,  and  stately  standing  clocks. 

In  considering  foreign  countries  there  is  usually 
some  specific  taste  to  satisfy.  Dickens  was  eager  to 
see  an  American  prairie  and  was  not  satisfied  until 
taken  to  one.  Scott  longed  to  view  an  American 
forest.  Nowadays  the  thoughts  of  the  European  in 
regard  to  America  lightly  turn  to  thoughts  of  sky- 
scrapers. Most  Americans  in  Europe  wish  primarily 
to  go  where  splendor  falls  on  ruined  castle  walls; 
and  in  Luxembourg  they  may  plethorically  satisfy 
this  desire,  for  the  number  of  ruins  is  astonishing  for 
so  small  a  region.  And  so  loftily  placed  are  these 
castles  of  olden  time  that  one  sees  a  new  and  literal 
meaning  in  the  terms  "upper  classes"  and  "high 
life." 

Among  the  many  are  the  two  towers  of  Esch, 
glooming  at  each  other  across  a  rock-bound  cleft; 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

the  splendid  fastness  of  Brandenburg,  brooding  over 
white  houses  beneath  it;  the  stern  remains  of  Bour- 
scheid,  deployed  in  crenelated  complexity  against 
the  sky;  mighty  Vianden,  looming  somber  and  gray, 
and  with  spacious  expanse  of  the  subterranean. 

One  will  not  so  much  care  to  learn  their  definite 
history.  Their  greatest  charm  lies  in  a  glorified 
indistinctnes  of  association.  Splendidly  setting  forth 
the  character  and  life  of  an  entire  age,  they  must 
needs  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past,  and 
kindle  imaginative  fire  even  in  those  least  prone 
to  imaginative  enthusiasm.  One  loves  to  wander 
through  the  halls  where  the  stately  folk  of  old  dined 
and  slept  and  gossiped  and  died,  and  to  stand  at 
recessed  windows  where  fine  ladies  looked  forth  over 
delectable  stretches  of  hill  and  hollow,  watching  for 
the  return  of  husbands  and  brothers  from  business — 
— that  business,  human  nature  being  essentially 
the  same  as  it  is  now,  often  being  the  settling  of 
some  account! 

Old  tales  haunt  these  ancient  piles.  Penetrate 
to  the  nethermost  vaults  of  one,  so  the  peasants 
believe,  and  there  will  be  found  two  mail-clad  war- 
riors deep  at  play.  "May  the  devil  take  him  who 
first  quits  the  table!"  cried  the  two  in  unison,  some 
sundry  centuries  ago,  and  at  once  the  devil  stood 
there,  suave,  smiling,  expectant.  Whereat  the 
players,  one  may  imagine  with  what  chagrin,  with 
what  decision  born  of  dire  necessity,  determined  to 


IN  INDEPENDENT  LUXEMBOURG 


white  hou. 
sch 

and 

a   glo; 

brth 
'hey  L 

f  things  past,  and 

e  least  prone 

to  wander 

.A  old  dined 

J  to  stand  at 

<ked  l< 

for 

essentially 
the  settling  of 

Pe 


Free  and  Independent  Luxembourg 

play  patiently  on  till  the  devil  should  be  aweary  of 
waiting. 

Between  the  rocky  point  of  a  castle  and  a  rocky 
point  beyond,  there  was  stretched  a  slender  plank 
for  the  convenience  of  men  at  work  upon  repairs. 
One  day  a  mason  hastened  across  the  plank  to  meet 
his  wife  approaching  with  his  dinner;  thus  doubly 
weighted  the  bridge  broke,  and  the  man  was  killed, 
and  the  woman,  herself  unhurt,  set  up  a  wail  remem- 
bered in  this  land  of  jests  throughout -the  centuries: 
;cThe  good  dinner;  it  is  lost!" 

One  ruin  is  haunted  by  a  fairy  who  sings  softly 
in  the  brooding  twilight;  but  woe  to  him  so  incautious 
as  to  utter  criticism,  for  instantly  he  is  metamor- 
phosed into  rock;  and  the  rock-filled  glen  bears  mute 
testimony  to  the  legend's  truth. 

A  prince,  without  examining  closely  into  the  fam- 
ily connections  of  a  maiden  he  loved,  married  her 
with  the  prenuptial  stipulation  that  one  day  in 
every  week  she  should  have  to  herself  unseen.  In- 
evitably came  regret  and  jealousy,  and  he  spied 
upon  her — and  found  her  to  be  a  mermaid  who  on 
that  day  resumed  her  natural  form.  Seeing  him 
she  fled  and  disappeared  forever;  but  the  peasants 
still  hear  her,  singing  from  the  waters  of  the  Alzette, 
the  melody  coming  crooningly  like  the  vague  voice 
of  the  wind. 

Far  older  than  the  castles  are  ancient  Druid 
remains;  and  upon  the  summit  of  one  Druid-haunted 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

hill,  topped  by  a  great  dolmen,  the  children  build  a 
fire  upon  one  night  of  the  year,  and  then,  waving 
burning  brands,  come  rushing  down  through  the 
torch-lit  darkness  into  the  village  at  the  mountain 
foot — rushing  down,  thus,  out  of  none  can  tell 
what  mistiness  of  vanished  centuries. 

The  iron  feet  of  Rome  left  deep  foot-prints  here, 
and  great  Roman  camps  are  preserved,  and  there  are 
fine  Roman  monuments.  And  among  them  none  is 
so  fine  as  the  monument  erected  to  the  memory 
of  a  rich  old  Roman  who  amassed  his  wealth  in 
trade.  It  is  worth  while  being  reminded,  thus,  that 
the  "commercial  spirit"  is  not  of  modern  growth. 

Of  many  things  are  the  people  of  Luxembourg 
proud  besides  their  independence.  They  are  proud 
of  their  free  press  and  free  speech  and  of  their 
schools,  of  which  the  government  conducts  not  alone 
those  for  general  education,  but  others  for  commerce, 
philosophy,  gardening,  farming,  and  manual  train- 
ing, and  still  others  for  instructing  girls  in  cooking 
and  house-wifery. 

There  are  agricultural  societies  for  the  purchase 
of  machinery,  and  for  combination  and  counsel  in 
other  lines,  and  for  the  handling  and  selling  of  milk 
and  cheese  and  butter;  and  two  great  societies,  one 
for  the  southern  portion  of  the  Duchy  (the  "good 
lands"),  and  one  for  the  northern  (the  "bad  lands"), 
are  entrusted  by  the  state  with  the  importation  of 
horses  and  cattle. 

[ISO] 


Free  and  Independent  Luxembourg 

Among  the  taxes  of  Luxembourg  is  an  income 
tax,  graded  not  only  according  to  the  amount  of 
income,  but  according  to  whether  one  is  a  pro- 
fessional man,  office-holder,  business  man,  or  laborer. 

The  important  day  for  Luxembourg  is  that  of  the 
patron  saint;  one  who  has  been  honored  as  such  ever 
since  a  long-ago  time  when  her  image,  having  been 
carried  away  from  the  capital,  miraculously  trans- 
ported itself  back  again.  Every  one  wishes  to  be 
at  the  capital  on  the  annual  day,  and  the  vital  point 
is  that  the  saint  must  believe  that  all  have  pilgrim- 
aged thither  on  foot.  And  so — although  it  is  not 
very  flattering  to  the  intelligence  of  the  propitiated 
one! — trains  and  wagons  stop  just  outside  of  the  city, 
and  the  people  go  walking  gravely  in. 

A  strongly  religious  folk  these  of  Luxembourg. 
At  a  lonely  hill  village,  one  Sunday  night,  I  entered 
the  church,  drearily  perched  under  the  shadow  of 
a  ruined  castle.  Shafts  of  pallid  moonlight  came 
through  the  narrow  windows,  but  the  church  was 
in  practical  darkness,  for  the  only  other  light  was 
from  three  tiny  candles  that  glimmered  by  the 
altar.  The  church  was  filled  with  people,  almost 
indistinguishable  in  the  gloom,  the  men  upon  one 
side  and  the  women  on  the  other.  There  was  no 
priest  or  other  leader,  but  the  men  and  women  were 
antiphonally  chanting,  in  almost  ghostly  resonance, 
a  solemn  service  long  since  learned  by  heart.  I 
left  the  church  and  climbed  to  the  ruin  above,  and 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

there  long  listened  to  the  antiphon  coming  up  to 
me  so  effective  and  weird. 

It  is  astonishing  that  in  so  small  a  land  there 
are  places  which  give  the  impression  of  being  at  a 
great  distance  from  the  beaten  tracks  of  travel. 
One  finds  isolated  villages,  of  houses  gleaming  white 
against  the  glaring  green  of  hillsides,  where  the 
landlord  of  the  little  inn  will  evince  a  desire  to 
shake  your  hand  on  arriving,  but — to  use  an  expres- 
sive Americanism,  for  which  there  is  really  no  capa- 
ble substitute — not  to  pull  your  leg  on  leaving. 
He  will  himself  serve  you  with  wine,  or  with  strong 
waters  distilled  from  plum-stone  or  cherry  and 
bearing  names  all  consonants,  and  his  pretty  daughter 
will  wait  upon  you.  You  will  sleep  in  a  bed  piled 
mountain  high,  with  a  mountainous  bed  to  lie  upon 
you.  You  will  wake  with  the  piping  of  birds  and 
look  from  your  window  upon  the  glory  of  lofty  slopes 
white  with  cherry  blossoms. 

At  one  little  village  I  was  told  that  there  was  no 
means  of  conveyance  farther.  I  had  gone  to  Vian- 
den  by  steam-tramway;  thence  to  the  northward 
by  postwagen  as  far  as  Eisenbach,  following  the  wild 
valley  of  the  River  Our,  the  boundary  between 
Luxembourg  and  Prussia;  and  it  was  at  Eisenbach 
that  I  was  told  there  was  no  way  of  getting  on  to 
Dasburg,  that  being  a  tiny  town  just  over  the  Prus- 
sian line,  in  Eifel  Land,  and  having  no  connection 
with  the  outside  world  in  this  direction.  "The  post- 


Free  and  Independent  Luxembourg 

wagen  goes  no  farther  than  Eisenbach,  and  you  can 
only  return  by  it,"  I  was  told. 

"But  I  shall  hire  a  horse,"  I  replied. 

"Ah!  But  there  is  no  horse  here — not  a  farmer 
has  a  horse — the  only  horses  are  those  of  the  post- 
wagen." 

I  knew  that  in  many  out-of-the-way  parts  of 
Europe  a  great  proportion  of  the  farmers  get  along 
without  horses,  where  the  patches  of  land  are  small, 
but  this  was  the  first  time  I  had  been  told  of  en- 
tirely horseless  farming. 

Well,  if  there  were  actually  no  horse  conveyance, 
I  could  at  least  walk — it  was  good  weather  and  the 
roads  were  good — and  so  I  asked  whom  I  could 
engage  to  walk  with  me  and  help  carry  my  small 
amount  of  baggage;  for  I  had  learned  the  value  of 
traveling  light. 

Then,  unexpectedly  to  the  villagers,  a  man  from 
a  few  miles  away,  who  happened  to  come  in,  told 
me  that  there  was  actually  a  horse  near  his  home! 
—he  was  sure  I  could  hire  it,  and  for  a  considera- 
tion was  eager  to  hurry  off  and  fetch  horse  and  owner. 

It  was  a  queer  looking  animal,  that  solitary  horse 
of  the  countryside.  It  was  the  color  of  soap,  and 
was  knobby  with  bones,  yet  the  owner  firmly  de- 
manded what,  it  was  clear,  he  thought  a  good  round 
sum  for  the  trip  to  Dasburg.  "  It  will  break  up  my 
day,"  he  said,  and  declared  that  he  must  have 
(stated  in  American  money)  about  a  dollar  and  a 

[153] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

half.  He  looked  positively  astonished  when  I  ac- 
cepted his  offer  without  demur. 

The  horse  was  tight  strapped  within  a  tarpaulin, 
the  wagon  was  without  springs,  the  tugs  were  chains, 
and  the  man  drove  with  a  single  rope — thus  evidenc- 
ing the  prodigal  waste  of  other  lands,  where  two 
lines  are  required — and  the  ride  was  a  delightful  one. 

Dasburg,  where  I  spent  one  night,  before  going 
on  in  another  direction  by  another  postwagen,  is  a 
strangely  solitary  little  place,  yet  I  found  that  at  a 
house  on  the  edge  of  the  village,  looking  out  over  a 
wide  and  desolate  view,  lived  a  man  and  his  wife 
who  had  been  to  America,  had  lived  for  a  time  in 
Buffalo,  but  had  wearied  of  Lake  Erie  and  could 
not  rest  till  they  had  got  back  to  this,  the  home  of 
their  childhood. 

Beside  the  top  of  the  front  door  of  many  a  Luxem- 
bourg house  is  a  little  opening,  and  to  this  there  runs 
a  narrow  ladder,  usually  placed  as  a  staircase  along 
the  wall,  but  sometimes  standing  out  ladderwise. 
Bizarre  in  effect:  but  perhaps  for  children?  one 
wonders — till  one  sees  the  ladders  mounted,  as 
evening  comes  on  apace,  by  the  family  chickens, 
tripping  up  from  rung  to  rung. 

The  ploughing-oxen,  the  houses  where  wealth 
of  pewter  is  preserved  in  deep  old  chests,  the  fairs 
where  metal  keepsakes  are  purchased  for  gifts  in- 
terpretative by  an  ancient  code  of  love,  the  grotto 
whose  iron  crowns  cure  headaches,  the  discarding 


Free  and  Independent  Luxembourg 

of  a  lover  by  the  present  of  a  black  egg  on  Easter 
Day — these  are  among  the  things  of  charm.  At 
fascinating  Vianden,  which  Hugo  loved,  there  is  a 
church  around  which  girls  try  to  dance  three  times 
upon  one  foot  and  then  to  throw  a  stone  into  the 
stream  that  goes  twinkling  through  the  valley,  for 
she  who  succeeds  will  be  married  within  a  twelve- 
month. At  Diekirch  each  December  a  fair  is  held  at 
which  men  and  women  servants  are  engaged  for  the 
following  year,  each  being  chalked  upon  the  back  as 
negotiations  are  completed. 

Here  "man  goeth  forth  unto  his  work  until  the 
evening,"  but  when  evening  comes  the  people 
gather  in  their  villages  for  friendliness  and  gossip. 
The  system  which  arose  in  the  times  when  peasants 
gathered  about  these  castles  for  protection,  not 
daring  to  make  their  homes  in  isolated  spots,  still 
endures,  as  it  does  throughout  most  of  Continental 
Europe,  and  so  there  is  not  that  loneliness  which  so 
often  is  the  lot  of  the  American  farmer. 

Land  is  divided  at  the  owner's  death  among  all 
his  children.  It  is  part  of  the  national  policy  to 
have  the  people  become  land-owners,  and  one  who 
inherits  none  will  find  the  government  desirous  of 
aiding  him  in  acquisition. 

There  is  always  a  subtle  responsive  smile  when 
one  asks,  no  matter  how  gravely,  where  the  Prus- 
sian boundary  is — and  it  is  never  far  distant  in  this 
narrow  land.  Ask  why  there  are  so  many  emigrants 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

leaving  this   delectable  country,   especially  for  the 
United  States,  and  a  smile  is  again  the  answer. 

A  country  piquant  and  fascinating.  And  when, 
on  the  postwagen,  one  approaches  a  mountain  vil- 
lage through  the  mist  of  early  morning,  and  the 
driver  blows  his  horn,  and  the  people  gather  where 
he  stops,  and  he  feeds  his  horses  with  big  pieces  of 
black  bread,  and  the  black-gowned  priest,  seeing 
that  there  is  a  stranger  as  passenger,  hovers  in  the 
background  and,  divided  between  curiosity  and 
dignity,  bows  till  his  tonsured  spot  shows  shining, 
it  is  hard  to  realize  that  this  is  in  the  heart  of  Europe, 
that  this  is  directly  between  the  two  great  cities  of 
Paris  and  Berlin — but  in  such  fascinating  incongru- 
ence  lies  much  of  the  charm  of  this  Gross herzogthum 
of  Luxembourg. 


XL    NEUTRAL    MORESNET 

ITHIN    the    triple    encom- 
f   passment    of    Belgium    and 
Holland  and  Prussia,  and  in 
actual  juxtaposition  with  all 
three,  there  lies  a  bit  of  land 
which  for  almost  a  century  has 
been  under  the  dual  rule  of  rival 
kings.      Originating    in    mistake, 
the  anomaly  has  been  perpetu- 
ated by  jealousy,  by  the  inability 
of  two  governments  to  concur  in 
partition. 

There  was  awe  in  the  conception  of  the  man 
without  a  country;  but  in  Neutral  Moresnet  there 
are  3781  without  a  country.  "  Under  which  king, 
Bezonian?  speak  or  die,"  demanded  Ancient  Pistol; 
but  change  the  threat  to  Moresnian  and  there 
would  be  3781  unable  to  give  the  saving  word. 

It  came  about  through  a  geographical  blunder  of 
that  Congress  of  Vienna  which,  after  the  sending 
of  Napoleon  to  Elba,  parceled  out  Europe  anew. 
Through  a  district  known  as  Moresnet,  which  under 
the  French  Empire  had  been  assigned  to  the  Depart- 
ment of  the  Ourthe,  the  negotiators  drew  a  line,  in- 
tending to  make  division  between  Prussia  and  the 
Netherlands.  The  northern  end  of  this  line  de- 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

marcatory,  the  point  where  the  departments  of  the 
Ourthe,  the  Meuse,  and  the  Roeure  converged, 
was  well  known,  but  about  the  southern  end,  so  it 
was  discovered,  there  were  views  variant.  Prussia 
wished  to  stand  by  the  description  in  one  article  of 
the  treaty;  the  Netherlands  claimed  under  another; 
and  contingent  upon  which  article  was  to  have  force 
was  the  status  of  a  triangle  of  land,  in  the  middle 
of  Moresnet,  some  three  miles  by  two  miles  by  one, 
with  an  area  of  850  acres. 

A  decision  was  postponed.  There  were  more  in- 
sistent problems.  Part  of  Moresnet  was  unques- 
tionably Prussian,  part  Netherlandian;  and  between 
the  two  portions  should  be  this  Neutral  Moresnet, 
this  No  Man's  Land.  It  was  to  be  under  the  civil 
administration  of  both  countries,  but  under  the 
military  jurisdiction  of  neither. 

When  the  Kingdom  of  the  Netherlands  was 
separated  into  Holland  and  Belgium,  it  was  Belgium 
that  retained  an  interest  in  the  Triangle;  when 
Prussia  became  part  of  Germany,  it  was  still  to 
Prussia  and  its  king  that  the  Triangle  gave  recog- 
nition. 

Prussia  and  Belgium  unite  in  the  administration 
and  divide  the  taxes;  the  money  and  the  stamps  of 
either  country  may  be  used;  the  courts  of  either 
may  be  appealed  to;  the  burgomaster  is  alternately 
from  one  country  and  from  the  other.  And  there  can 
be  no  garrison  and  no  fortifications. 


Neutral  Moresnet 

From  its  ancient  and  still  worked  deposits  of 
calamine,  the  hydrous  silicate  of  zinc,  the  territory 
is  sometimes  known  as  Vieille  Montagne,  or  Alten- 
berg,  although  the  "old  mountain"  is  but  a  lowish 
hill.  From  "calamine"  come  "Kelmis,"  the  name 
of  the  town  where,  as  if  by  some  law  of  precipita- 
tion, the  population  has  settled  at  the  bottom  of  the 
Triangle. 

Although  Neutral  Moresnet  is  but  a  few  miles 
from  Aix-la-Chapelle,  and  although  an  electric-car 
line  will  be  continued  from  the  city  to  its  edge — 
probably,  before  this,  has  been  continued — it  is  a 
lost  territory.  It  is  easily  reachable  from  the  vil- 
lage of  Hergenrath,  but  this  I  did  not  easily  learn. 
On  the  evening  of  my  arrival  in  Aix  I  inquired  at 
the  hotel,  at  some  neighboring  shops,  and  at  both 
of  the  railway  stations,  but  no  one  could  tell  me 
how  to  reach  Neutral  Moresnet;  they  had  no  idea 
at  all,  or  guessed  at  random  at  various  impossible 
stations.  But  I  set  out  next  morning  on  the  quest, 
and  after  some  hours  of  travel  and  search  was  so 
fortunate  as  to  find  it.  They  love  to  tell,  in  the 
Triangle,  of  a  recent4y  appointed  Prussian  post- 
office  inspector  who  went  from  Aix  to  visit  Neutral 
Moresnet  officially,  but  who,  misdirected  from 
station  to  station,  returned  baffled  at  night  to  his 
starting-point. 

And  I  recently  had  a  personal  experience  that  is 
perhaps  still  stranger.  The  division  of  Neutral 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

Moresnet  has  long  been  intended,  plans  have  from 
time  to  time  been  proposed  for  it,  and  it  is  apt  to  be 
accomplished  at  any  moment.  This  would  alter 
the  national  frontier  of  Germany;  a  matter  of  such 
importance  that  it  would  be  expected  that  any 
German  official,  and  especially  any  one  connected 
with  what  we  call  the  Department  of  State,  would 
infallibly  and  necessarily  know  all  about  the  entire 
situation.  And  so  before  putting  this  into  a  book, 
I  went  to  the  office  of  the  German  Consul  in  one  of 
our  largest  cities  to  make  certain  that  there  had 
been  no  change  of  status.  But  the  Consul  had 
actually  never  heard  of  Neutral  Moresnet.  "It  is 
on  the  German  boundary,  you  say?"  he  repeated 
wonderingly;  and  he  turned  to  his  books  to  find  it, 
and  could  then  only  shake  his  head  in  amazement. 

Then  I  wrote  to  the  German  Embassy,  in  Wash- 
ington, only  to  find  that  even  there  the  boundaries 
of  Germany  are  not  watched!  They  knew  of  Neu- 
tral Moresnet,  but  could  only  "regret  to  say"  that 
"at  this  Embassy  it  is  not  known"  about  the  long- 
intended  division. 

No  railway  has  its  line  through  the  neutral  bit. 
Tracks  are  in  Prussian  Moresnet  on  one  side,  in 
Belgium  Moresnet  on  the  other,  but  within  Neutral 
Moresnet  there  is  only  a  short  switch  for  freight- 
cars  from  the  mines. 

The  burgomaster,  above  whose  office  door  are  the 
juxtaposed  coats-of-arms  of  Prussia  and  of  Belgium, 

[160] 


Neutral  Moresnet 

not  only  dispenses  punishment  for  petty  delinquency, 
but  is  the  active  governing  power  of  the  Triangle. 
He  is  assisted  by  a  Council  of  Ten,  a  Committee  of 
Beneficence,  and  a  Committee  for  Schools;  but  even 
the  awesomely  named  "Ten"  wield  no  real  power, 
for  counsellors  and  committeemen  are  alike  chosen 
by  the  burgomaster  himself  and  exercise  functions 
that  are  only  advisory.  Nor  have  the  people  of  the 
Triangle  any  power  of  voting  in  regard  to  any  public 
matter  whatever. 

Yet  the  burgomaster  is  far  from  being  an  un- 
trammeled  despot.  There  are  two  commissioners, 
one  appointed  by  Prussia  and  one  by  Belgium,  who 
visit  the  Triangle  whenever  they  see  fit  and  to  whom 
every  act  of  the  burgomaster  must  be  pleasing. 
Should  they  check  or  chide  him,  he  must  submit; 
should  they  give  advice,  he  must  comply.  Should 
the  two  commissioners  themselves  differ,  the  matter 
must  at  once  go  to  Berlin  and  to  Brussels  for  decree. 

Of  the  3781,  1858  are  males  and  1923  females; 
1642  are  rated  as  Prussian,  1302  Belgian,  372  Dutch, 
2  Italian,  2  Russian,  and  1  Swiss.  The  remaining 
460  are  descendants  of  those  who  were  inhabitants 
when  the  Triangle  became  neutral,  and  they  are 
highly  privileged,  for  their  taxes  remain  the  same 
as  their  ancestors  paid  in  1814,  and  they  are  free 
from  any  military  service  whatever.  Alarmed  at 
losing  men  from  their  armies,  Prussia  and  Belgium 
some  years  ago  began  to  claim  a  few  years'  service 

[161] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

from  such  as  entered  the  Triangle  from  their  respec- 
tive territories,  but  neither  country  has  ever  at- 
tempted to  alter  the  status  of  the  indigenes. 

Approaching  the  Triangle  from  Hergenrath,  there 
are  seen  a  low-rounding  hill,  a  pointed  spire,  and 
clustered  roofs  half-hidden  among  trees,  and  that  is 
Kelmis. 

The  houses  are  built  to  the  line  of  cobbled  side- 
walk, most  of  them  are  of  two  stories,  of  brick  or 
of  brick-trimmed  stone,  and  often  a  front  is  plas- 
tered in  yellow  or  brown  or  pink;  nor  is  the  town 
without  houses  of  little  windows,  wooden-shuttered 
in  white  or  green.  The  floors  are  tiled  or  bricked, 
the  kettles  are  copper,  the  crockery  is  of  ponderous- 
ness.  I  noticed  a  plate  holding  up  one  corner  of  a 
heavy  and  uneven  table.  "  It  won't  hurt  the  plate," 
said  the  owner,  laconically,  following  my  glance. 
Rain-barrels  are  of  monster  magnitude.  Mottoes 
are  darned  in  flaming  reds  and  blues,  as,  "May  the 
good  God  give  us  good  luck!"  Many  a  house  has 
flowers  in  its  windows,  many  a  door  is  iron-knockered, 
many  a  fruit  tree  is  trained  against  the  wall.  Flowers 
grow  freely,  but  not  in  great  variety;  and  most  prized 
is  a  yellow  violet  which  the  people  deem  infallible  as 
an  indicator  of  zinc,  the  degree  of  yellow  in  the  flower 
denoting  the  degree  of  metal  in  the  soil. 

When  evening  approaches,  and  the  men  come 
back  from  digging  in  the  wet  earth  and  pushing 
little  cars  on  narrow  tracks,  the  people  group  genially 

[162! 


Neutral  Moresnet 

for  gregarious  gossip.  The  young  folk  walk  together 
up  and  down,  or  gayly  and  informally  dance.  The 
children  play.  Music  sounds  from  the  refreshment- 
gardens  or  the  casino. 

The  first  of  May  is  moving-day,  and  then  the  streets 
are  filled  with  little  two-wheeled  carts,  heaped  high 
with  things  of  the  household,  and  one  gains  the  im- 
pression that  nearly  every  one  is  changing  his  domi- 
cile— and,  indeed,  the  citizens  will  tell  you,  with 
great  complaisance,  that  each  family  manages  in 
time  to  live  in  nearly  every  house  in  town!  With  all 
the  world  before  them  where  to  choose  they  will  not 
leave  the  Triangle,  but  variedly  find  the  spice  of  life 
within  its  slender  borders. 

The  water-supply  is  from  a  mighty  spring  just 
away  from  the  town,  and  the  water  is  transported 
by  the  women  and  the  girls  in  buckets  dangling  from 
yokes  borne  across  their  shoulders. 

There  are  many  signs  for  the  sale  of  oleomargarine, 
drugs,  and  drink,  thus  hinting  at  a  possible  proces- 
sional cause  and  effect.  Within  this  tiny  acreage 
there  are  eighty  places  where  beverages  are  dis- 
pensed! "Sang  und  Liebe,  Witz  und  Wein,  Sind  des 
Lebens  Sonnenschein!"  Thus,  prominently  lettered 
in  one  of  the  houses,  are  the  desiderata  of  this 
humble  Moresnian  life  expressed;  only,  in  realiza- 
tion, the  wine  is  generally  beer  and  the  wit  is  a 
humor  rather  broad. 

Taxing  is  done  with  cheerful  freedom.  Restau- 

[163] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

rants  and  cafes  naturally  bear  an  important  share, 
and  every  dance,  every  little  concert,  is  a  taxable 
occasion.  Dogs,  too,  are  taxed;  but  only  dogs  of 
harness — "les  chiens  de  trait"-— the  poor  "dog  Tray." 
Yet  taxes,  in  all,  seem  to  be  a  little  lower  than  in 
adjacent  Prussia  and  only  a  little  higher  than  in 
Belgium. 

The  solitary  policeman  of  the  Triangle,  jocularly 
known  as  the  "Secretary  of  War,"  goes  about  with 
hurried  assiduity,  stooping  under  his  responsibility. 
Diligent  in  his  business,  he  stands  for  two  kings. 
But  in  case  of  need  the  soldiers  of  Belgium  or  of 
Prussia  may  be  called  in;  and,  indeed,  Prussian 
soldiers,  patrolling  with  slung  rifles,  are  a  familiar 
sight  along  the  border-line.  Watching  the  customs, 
they — for  although  Moresnet  is  the  only  place  in 
Europe  where  there  is  not  the  slightest  customs  ex- 
amination for  articles  entering,  everything  which 
goes  out  is  carefully  scanned! 

On  the  whole,  an  honest  sort  of  place,  this.  "A 
man  can  go  safely  anywhere,  night  or  day,"  declares 
the  burgomaster;  and  it  is  doubtless  mere  exuber- 
ance of  heed  that  leads  the  barber  to  take  in  every 
evening  the  gleaming  basin  of  brass  that  twinkles  in 
front  of  his  shop  as  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of 
his  calling. 

The  Prussian  Eagle  and  the  Belgian  Lion  have 
lain  down  together,  but  one  intangibly  gains  the 
impression  that  the  lion  has  not  held  the  lion's  share. 


Neutral  Moresnet 

Prussian  governmental  influence  seems  to  be  stronger. 
There  is  a  preponderance  of  the  flaxen  hair  and  blue 
eyes  of  Germany.  Although  Walloon,  Dutch,  Flem- 
ish, French,  and  German  are  all  spoken,  the  number 
of  languages  being  inversely  as  the  population, 
German  has  practically  conquered  the  rest;  but  it 
bears  the  marks  of  the  tongues  it  overcame.  It  is 
difficult  to  understand,  as  it  has  become  a  patois: 
in  fact,  the  worse  one's  German  is,  here,  the  better 
it  is. 

The  vaccination  of  the  children  is  a  function  civil 
and  military.  The  burgomaster  keeps  the  record. 
A  Prussian  soldier  marshals  the  throng.  The  lining- 
up,  the  registering,  the  baring  of  arms,  the  in- 
cision, the  relegation  to  the  drying  rows — all  is 
swift,  methodical,  capable,  amusing. 

In  1903  the  absence  of  definite  rule  attracted  the 
attention  of  men  who  wished  to  establish  a  great 
gambling  resort;  it  was  decided  to  locate  here,  large 
sums  were  spent  in  preparation,  and  gambling  on 
an  extensive  scale  was  actually  begun.  The  Code 
Napoleon,  still  operative  in  the  Neutral  Territory, 
prohibits  the  gathering  of  more  than  twenty  persons 
for  such  a  purpose,  at  one  time,  without  specific 
authority.  But  the  gambling  promoters  proceeded 
with  much  circumspection.  They  first  decreed  that 
no  inhabitant  of  the  Triangle  should  be  permitted 
to  gamble,  and  thus  there  was  to  be  no  local  injury. 
And  they  arranged  to  play  in  relays  of  twenty! 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

They  believed  that  the  burgomaster  and  Belgium 
favored  them,  and  so  long  as  the  law  was  observed 
they  believed  they  could  ignore  the  displeasure  of 
Prussia. 

But  the  man  behind  the  sword  cut  the  cleverly 
tied  Gordian  knot  of  strict  legality.  The  Prussian 
King  declared  that  unless  gambling  should  instantly 
cease  the  territory  would  at  once  be  partitioned  and 
the  neutrality  should  end.  In  distinctively  Belgian 
or  Prussian  territory  a  Monte  Carlo  would  not  be 
permitted;  so  the  gamblers  swiftly  vanished,  and  the 
neutrality  remained. 

Within  Neutral  Moresnet  there  is  no  court  except 
the  petty  tribunal  of  the  burgomaster.  A  plaintiff 
may  bring  his  suit  in  either  Prussia  or  Belgium,  as 
he  may  prefer.  The  Code  Napoleon,  altered  from 
time  to  time  by  mutual  edicts  of  the  two  kings, 
forms  the  basis  of  law,  but  this  law  must  be  ad- 
ministered in  accordance  with  the  procedure  of 
Belgian  or  Prussian  courts.  Pregnant  of  perplexity, 
all  this.  To  Belgian  Aubel  or  Prussian  Eugen,  to 
the  court  of  Verviers  or  that  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  on 
appeal  to  Liege  or  Cologne — such  is  the  whimsical 
alternativeness.  A  criminal  may  find  himself  be- 
fore a  Prussian  or  a  Belgian  court.  A  deed  may  be 
executed  before  either  a  Prussian  or  a  Belgian  notary, 
and  may  be  filed  at  either  Verviers  or  Aix.  The 
differences  of  legal  expense  and  procedure,  the 
differences  in  delay — nay,  even  potential  differences 

[166] 


Neutral  Moresnet 

in  decision  and  in  penalty — make  the  legal  com- 
plexity a  thing  of  real  moment. 

My  advent  caused  a  genuine  flutter.  That  I 
could  be  merely  an  American,  traveling  unofficially, 
seemed  incredible;  and  officials,  Belgian  and  Prus- 
sian, and  even  an  English  consul  from  a  Belgian 
town,  kept  dropping  in,  one  after  another,  ac- 
knowledging to  me,  over  tall  beakers,  that  they  had 
been  anxiously  wired  anent  my  presence  there. 

The  nearness  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  the  favorite 
city  of  Charlemagne,  tinges  the  entire  region  with 
fascinating  historical  color;  and  here,  at  the  very 
edge  of  Neutral  Moresnet,  is  Emmaburg,  which  was 
his  favorite  resting-place.  A  little  stream  goes 
bending  about  the  rock  on  which  the  chateau 
stands;  and  one  vividly  realizes  that  the  brook  has 
gone  on,  unchanged,  throughout  the  thousand  years 
that  have  passed  since  Charlemagne  loved  to  come 
here,  and  since  the  undying  story  of  Emma  and 
Eginhard  went  to  its  happy  catastrophe. 

Emma  was  the  Emperor's  daughter;  Eginhard, 
his  secretary.  A  poet,  a  scholar,  a  musician,  hand- 
some, ingratiating,  one  whom  Charlemagne  him- 
self trusted — small  wonder  that  Emma  and  he  fell 
in  love.  But,  Eginhard  being  only  a  secretary, 
they  dared  not  publicly  avouch  their  affection  and 
they  dared  not  meet  except  in  secret.  On  one  occa- 
sion the  princess  allowed  the  young  man  to  remain 
until  well  toward  morning — "And  then  they  parted; 

[167] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

but  at  parting,  lo!  they  saw  the  palace  courtyard 
white  with  snow!" 

Confronted  by  such  an  emergency,  Emma  acted 
with  a  readiness  and  decision  worthy  of  her  illus- 
trious parentage.  She  had  certainly  been  impru- 
dent in  her  entertaining  of  Eginhard,  with  her 
father  unaware;  but  her  speeding  of  the  parting 
guest  was  beyond  all  praise.  For  she  promptly 
took  Eginhard  upon  her  shoulders  and  carried 
him  to  where  his  footsteps  would  not  be  deemed 
evidence  condemnatory! 

But  Charlemagne,  unknown  to  them,  was  a 
spectator  from  one  of  the  tower  windows!  Yet  it 
all  came  out  right,  just  as  a  sweet  old  tale  ought 
to  do,  and  they  married  and  lived  happily  ever 
after.  The  sour  Carlyle  speaks  derisively  of  it. 
"  Charlemagne  with  wanton  daughters  carrying  secre- 
taries through  the  snow,"  he  jibes;  but  his  intem- 
perate pluralization  shows  how  bent  he  was  upon 
avoiding  all  sweetness  and  charm. 

The  chateau  has  been  much  bewindowed  and 
largely  rebuilt,  but  tradition  holds  that  the  most 
prominent  tower  was  standing  in  Charlemagne's 
time,  and  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt  that  the  lines 
of  the  courtyard  are  unchanged. 

Trees  are  attractively  massed  about  Emmaburg, 
yet  do  not  hide  it  from  the  view  of  Kelmis.  Even 
within  Kelmis  itself  there  is  a  general  aspect  of  trees 
and  greenery.  To  the  northward  the  Neutral  Terri- 

[168] 


Neutral  Moresnet 

toiy  is  covered  thick  with  woodland,  as  are  portions 
of  Holland  and  Belgium  and  Prussia  there  adjoin- 
ing. 

At  the  extreme  northern  point  of  the  Triangle 
are  clustered  four  boundary-stones,  one  for  each 
of  the  four  jurisdictions. 

In  the  midst  of  the  woods,  southward  from  this 
boundary  point,  I  chanced  one  day  upon  an  ancient 
stone,  hidden  among  trees  and  bushes.  It  bore  the 
date  of  1615,  and  was  blazoned  with  a  defiant  in- 
scription and  a  long-forgotten  coat  of  arms.  Men 
fought,  three  hundred  years  ago,  to  place  that  stone 
there  and  maintain  it.  And  now,  so  completely 
forgotten!  stumbled  upon  by  a  stranger,  and  lost  to 
all  other  knowledge. 

Simple  and  plainly  dressed,  these  folk  of  the 
Neutral  Land;  and  they  ought  to  be  happy,  for  they 
have  but  little  poverty  and  little  riches.  Still,  there 
are  eighteen  telephones  in  use,  Belgium  in  each  case 
giving  the  permission,  and  Prussia  putting  each 
telephone  in  and  collecting  the  eighty  marks  annually 
— which,  again,  is  not  altogether  untypical  of  the 
division  of  power  here! 

I  found  even  this  tiny  territory  to  be  not  without 
its  own  exemplification  of  the  truth,  which  the 
traveller  should  always  remember,  that  the  foreign 
mind  works  differently  from  his  own.  After  vainly 
trying^  to  be  pleased  with  the  assimilation  of  luke- 
warm coffee,  I  explained  to  the  excellent  waitress 

[169] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

that  I  desired  it  hot.  Really,  my  German  was  right 
enough,  but  her  comprehension  of  it  was  not  all  that 
could  have  been  desired.  She  was  unfeignedly  joy- 
ful at  being  able  to  please  the  man  from  across  the 
sea — and  fetched  me,  not  hot  coffee,  but  a  cup 
heated  to  untouchableness ! 

On  the  first  morning  of  my  stay  there  I  laid  out  a 
roll  of  laundry.  After  breakfast  I  looked  for  it,  to 
give  to  a  messenger;  but  it  had  disappeared!  The 
maid,  so  I  found,  had  thought  the  articles,  laid 
together,  to  be  the  American  sleeping-complement, 
and,  with  imaginable  wonder  at  what  she  must  have 
deemed  an  embarrassing  multiplicity,  but  without 
a  particle  of  hesitation,  she  had  tucked  everything, 
with  the  pajamas,  at  the  foot  of  the  bed — not  even 
under  the  pillow,  for  that  would  not  have  been  the 
Moresnet  way. 

The  charivari  is  prominent  among  the  diversions 
of  the  Triangle.  Not  always  invoked  for  the  delec- 
tation of  the  newly  wedded,  this,  but,  by  a  humor- 
ous perversion,  even  more  for  the  distinguishment 
of  such  as  have  not  married!  The  most  popular 
music  at  these  open-air  concerts  is  that  made  by 
holding  a  great  scythe  against  the  tire  of  a  revolving 
wheel;  and  so  shrilly  excruciating  is  it  as  to  make  a 
lapse  from  virtue  a  matter  for  serious  regret. 

The  church  of  Kelmis  is  modern,  and  its  glaring 
interior  could  add  many  a  hue  to  the  rainbow.  But, 
though  without  the  splendid  dignity  of  an  old  cathe- 

[170] 


Neutral  Moresnet 

dral,  it  is  also  without  the  beggars  who  are  the  sadly 
familiar  sight  at  magnificent  cathedral  portals. 

Religious  feast-days  transcend  in  importance  the 
celebration  of  any  festivals  secular.  Even  in  secular 
recreations  the  religious  element  is  likely  to  be  con- 
joined; in  parades,  priestliness  and  playfulness  may 
affiliate;  and  there  is  no  better  place  for  a  secular 
outing  than  one  of  the  stations  of  the  Cross.  Fre- 
quently, by  the  roadside,  alike  within  the  village 
and  in  the  wild-woods,  there  are  seen  the  crucifix 
and  shrine.  "Yet  the  people  are  not  too  good," 
says  the  priest,  with  subtle  and  tolerant  philosophy. 

For  the  First  Communion  the  entire  population 
joins  in  the  celebration.  Great  banners  are  hung 
on  the  outward  walls,  and  in  the  cool  light  of  early 
morning  the  streets  are  thronged.  Led  by  a  band, 
playing  a  stately  march,  the  children  come  in  pro- 
cession around  a  corner  and,  the  priest  leading, 
circle  through  a  grove  of  trees  toward  the  entrance 
of  the  church.  There  has  been  lavishness  of  out- 
lay, and  there  is  a  really  astonishing  display  of 
scarlet  and  blue  in  the  costumes,  in  addition  to  the 
more  prevalent  white.  In  the  church,  every  inch 
of  which  is  crowded,  even  for  standing-room,  the 
service  is  of  simple  effectiveness,  and  the  organ  is 
assisted  by  the  band. 

For  the  little  girls  it  is  the  most  important  time 
of  all  their  lives.  All  day  long  they  wear  their  veils 
and  dresses;  all  of  the  second  day  they  wear  another 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

special  suit  from  morning  until  night;  all  of  the  third 
day  still  another — for  such  is  the  custom  of  the 
Neutral  Land. 

I  saw  not  only  the  First  Communion,  but  the 
Last.  One  day  I  met  the  priest  going  on  his  way  to 
the  deathbed  of  a  woman.  The  kiister — the  sacris- 
tan— preceded  him,  dolefully  ringing  a  little  bell 
and  bearing  a  light  which  glimmered  strangely  be- 
neath the  hot  sun  in  its  cloudless  sky.  Following 
was  a  constantly  augmenting  group,  and  each  man's 
head  was  bared,  and  all  were  awed  and  still.  They 
came  to  a  village  house,  and  the  priest  went  in,  and 
the  women  silently  followed,  and  the  men  stood 
reverently  at  the  door.  And  with  candle  and  water 
and  sprigs  the  last  communion  was  administered, 
and  a  few  great  tears  rolled  from  the  eyes  of jthe 
woman  dying  there. 

The  amusements  of  Neutral  Moresnet  are  im- 
portant and  numerous.  There  are  associations  musi- 
cal, associations  gymnastic,  associations  theatrical, 
associations  for  bowling,  for  dancing,  for  shooting 
at  the  mark  that  dangles  from  a  lofty  pole.  There 
is  an  excellent  band;  there  are  two  fire  companies. 

These  people,  small  though  their  territory,  will 
not  be  cabined,  cribbed,  confined.  There  are  two 
clubs  for  the  training  and  flying  of  carrier-pigeons! 
And  I  met  a  man  whose  delight  is  the  gathering  of 
newspapers  in  the  languages  of  all  the  world;  he 
has  a  wonderful  collection,  and  lamented  to  me  that 

[172] 


A  PROCESSION  IN  NEUTRAL  MORESNET 


Old 


ally 

• 


od 

idle  and  w 


rmastic. 


met  are   im- 
:iatio 

for  sho 


xl  A 


Neutral  Moresnet 

thus  far  he  had  no  newspaper  of  the  Esquimaux  or 
of  the  North-American  Indian. 

For  the  men  of  the  Triangle  there  are  twenty 
associations,  but  for  the  women  there  is  none! 
There  are  no  club-women,  no  "advanced"  women. 
"They  cook,  they  work,  they  make  their  children's 
clothes,"  said  the  priest,  gravely  outlining  their 
diversions.  "On  Sunday  they  go  to  church.  On 
Sunday  afternoon  they  walk  out  with  their  husbands 
and  children.  They  know  nothing  else.  They  wish 
nothing  else.  They  are  content.  Is  it  not  well?"4 

Yet  one  need  not  deem  them  to  be  always  under 
repression.  I  remember  hearing  a  morning  quarrel 
with  the  milkman;  and — such  are  the  geographical 
advantages  of  the  place — not  only  the  Neutral  Land, 
but  Prussia  and  Holland  and  Belgium  as  well,  listened 
perforce  to  the  woman's  side  of  the  argument. 

The  very  intensity  of  local  life  tends  to  hold  the 
people.  They  are  satisfied  with  their  Lilliput. 
They  little  care  to  stir  abroad,  even  for  their  amuse- 
ments, or  even  to  near-by  Aix.  With  their  many 
gathering-places,  their  varied  means  of  pleasurable 
occupation,  they  need  no  outside  aids  to  joyousness. 

There  is  general  pervasiveness  of  content.  There 
is  a  sort  of  at  fresco  freedom  of  life,  an  untrammel- 
edness  which  comes  naturally  from  long-continued 
absence  of  centralized  restraint.  The  people  only 
fear  the  possible  impermanency  of  their  pleasing 
status. 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

No  man  can  serve  two  masters  ?  Why,  here  is  the 
twofold  subjection,  the  twofold  loyalty,  of  three 
thousand  seven  hundred  and  eighty-one! 


\ 


v\ 


XII.    WATERTOCHTJES   IN  HOLLAND 

OLLAND  is  a  water 
country.  There- 
fore, the  way  to 
see  Holland  is  to 
go  about  by  water. 
This,  which  seems 
a  self-evident 
truth,  is  a  truth 

so  neglected  that  almost  all  visitors 
to  Holland  travel  by  train,  except 
for  the  single  trip  from  Amsterdam 
to  well-staged  Maarken;  and  even  that  is  not  a 
watertrip  in  the  sense  that  I  mean,  for  it  is  a  trip 
on  the  Zuyder  Zee,  and  what  I  have  in  mind  is  the 
leisurely  travel  along  the  rivers  and  canals. 

Holland  is  so  small  that  it  is  apt  to  be  too  hastily 
seen;  the  visitor  will  not  leave  enough  time  for  it;  it 
is  usually  sandwiched  thin  between  England  and 
France.  A  few  cities,  a  few  museums  and  galleries, 
a  glance  at  a  few  canals  from  the  train — and  the 
traveler  hurries  on  to  Paris  or  London,  thinking 
that  Holland  has  been  "done." 

Holland  is  so  genial,  so  pleasant,  so  smilingly 
sedate,  so  happy,  so  prosperous,  so  scrubbed  almost 
to  godliness,  as  to  make  it  beyond  most  countries 
in  intrinsic  charm.  And  it  is  peculiarly  a  quiet 

[175] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

country,  and  this  because  so  very  much  of  its  busi- 
ness and  pleasure  traffic  is  this  water  traffic. 

To  know  Holland  is  to  love  Holland.  The  people 
are  agreeable  to  look  at  and  pleasant  to  meet.  The 
buildings  are  attractive.  The  cooking  is  delicious. 
Expenses  are  not  high.  And  in  every  direction 
there  are  things  to  discover:  this  feature  putting  it 
in  the  desired  class  for  those  who  would  find  what 
everybody  does  not  see. 

I  learned,  for  example,  with  joy,  that  the  prin- 
cipal literary  character  of  America  is  Nikkater!— 
with  the  accent  on  the  Nik.  I  came  across  this  fact 
in  conversation  with  a  colonel  in  the  Dutch  army,  a 
man  of  affairs  and  position.  "I  admire  your  Nik- 
kater so  much!"  he  said,  raising  both  hands  in  a 
gesture  of  admiration,  while  a  look  of  ineffable  de- 
light came  over  his  face.  "Your  Nikkater  is  so 
wonderful!"  And  I  did  not  instantly  gather  that 
he  meant  Nick  Carter! 

The  stories  of  Nick  Carter,  in  translation,  are 
really  looked  upon  with  admiration  in  Holland,  as 
highly  interesting  in  themselves  and  as  the  most 
prominent  examples  of  American  literary  art. 

The  second  time  that  I  heard  Nikkater  spoken 
of  was  on  a  fete  night  in  Amsterdam,  when,  standing 
for  a  few  minutes  at  the  corner  of  a  crowded  street, 
I  asked  some  question  of  a  lieutenant  of  police. 
He  answered  my  question,  and  then:  "You  are  an 
American?"  he  said,  and  went  on  with  the  same 

[176] 


Watertochtjes  in  Holland 

enthusiasm  that  I  had  noticed  in  the  case  of  the 
colonel:  "You  are  from  the  home  of  Nikkater!" 
he  exclaimed,  with  awe  in  his  voice. 

That  the  Dutch  have  a  surprisingly  small  litera- 
ture of  their  own  for  such  an  intelligent  race  explains 
why  they  depend  upon  other  countries  for  their 
supply,  although  I  could  find  no  reason  why  it  is  that, 
in  reaching  across  the  Atlantic  for  books,  they  es- 
pecially single  out  Nick  Carter. 

The  fete  day  upon  which  I  met  the  second  enthusi- 
ast for  Nick  represents  another  of  the  unexpected 
and  worthwhile  things  I  came  across  in  Holland,  for 
the  fete  is  in  honor  for  the  birthday  of  the  Queen, 
August  31,  and  all  Holland  joins  in  it,  and  the  quiet, 
staid,  sedate,  prim  citizens  of  Amsterdam  indulge  in 
decently  dissipated  but  decorous  Dutch  saturnalia. 

Throughout  the  day  there  are  marching  and 
music,  and  carillons  during  which  half  Amsterdam 
stands  in  a  hot  square  with  its  collective  neck 
almost  broken  and  its  eyes  upturned  to  the  bell- 
tower  of  the  town  hall.  But  when  evening  falls  the 
revels  begin,  and  they  center  along  the  beloved 
Kalver-Straat. 

Anticipatorily,  the  hotels  and  restaurants  take  in 
their  sidewalk-tables  and  bay-trees,  and  most  of  the 
shops  build  solid  boarding  in  front  of  their  windows, 
for  the  coming  of  sunset  means  the  filling  of  the  Kalver- 
Straat  and  Rembrandt-Plein  with  a  surging  mass  of 
laughing,  pushing,  singing,  happy,  dancing  Dutch. 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

Numberless  street  musicians  are  suddenly  in 
evidence,  mostly  in  bands  of  four  or  five,  and  around 
each  music  center  the  people  dance.  Introductions 
are  a  disregarded  formality — everyone  seems  to 
know  everyone  else. 

From  my  balcony  I  counted  ten  dancing  groups, 
at  one  time,  within  one  short  block,  the  groups 
momently  shifting  and  changing,  increasing  or 
lessening  in  number,  as  'dancers  quit  and  went 
hilariously  down  the  street  or  new  ones  joined.  At 
times  it  seemed  as  if  there  were  nothing  but  sway- 
ing, bobbing,  bowing  heads  as  far  as  one  could  see, 
under  the  brilliant  street  lights. 

And  with  it  all  there  was  very  little  of  intoxica- 
tion; there  was  practically  none  at  all;  it  was  a  gay 
but  after  all  a  sober  saturnalia,  and  an  amazing 
metamorphosis  of  staid  Amsterdam,  a  city  which 
thus  shows  that  it  has  mastered  the  delightful  art 
of  being  happy  in  public. 

And  while  the  streets  were  packed  and  thronged 
with  merrymakers,  to  honor  their  Queen,  who  is 
immensely  popular  in  Holland,  the  restaurants 
were  jammed  with  diners  and  gay  with  orchestral 
music. 

In  the  morning  following  the  fete  I  went  on  a 
watertochtje;  watertochtjes  being  water-trips. 

The  trip  was  to  an  ancient  little  town  called 
Alkmaar,  and  I  went  there  to  see  a  world-market — 
the  great  market  for  Edam  cheese. 


A  SHADED  WATERWAY  OF  HOLLAND 


ightfl: 


Watertochtjes  in  Holland 

The  journey,  of  some  twenty-five  miles,  was  by  a 
little  steamer,  barely  longer  than  an  American  tug, 
and  was  mostly  on  canals;  these  being  not  the  usual 
canals,  but  great,  broad  waterways,  of  very  con- 
siderable depth;  the  two  greatest  canals  of  Holland. 
Now  and  then  there  was  even  an  expansion  to  the 
width  of  a  lake. 

It  was  ideal  traveling,  the  perfection  of  restful 
leisureliness.  The  water  was  never  rough,  but  at 
the  same  time  it  was  never  entirely  placid;  it  was 
really  that  delightful  desideratum,  the  golden  mean. 

For  a  while  we  kept  passing  ocean-going  ships. 
We  passed  huge  warehouses,  with  names  upon  them 
that  were  full  of  the  fascinating  call  of  distant 
lands:  India,  Sumatra,  Japan,  Russia,  Brazil;  re- 
mindful that  for  centuries  the  Dutch  have  gone  down 
to  the  sea  in  ships;  only,  here  the  Biblical  phrase 
must  needs,  for  correctness  sake,  be  reversed,  as 
the  people  of  this  diked-in  land  go,  literally,  up  to 
the  sea! 

There  are  long  stretches  of  farmland,  and  there 
are  lush  and  watery  fields  of  green;  there  are  little 
villages — and  some  of  the  villages  are  almost  alto- 
gether inhabited  by  those  whose  sole  business  is 
the  building  and  repair  of  dikes,  and  as  you  pass 
you  see  their  piled-up  mats  and  fascines. 

There  are  square  farmhouses,  low-built,  except 
that  the  roof  rises  high  in  a  point  in  the  center; 
houses  intended  not  only  for  farmers  but  also  for 

[179] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

four-footed  accessories  of  the  farms,  with  hay  stored 
up  in  the  peak.  "They  are  convenient,  and  they 
are  warm  in  winter,"  I  remember  a  phlegmatic 
Dutchman  saying,  in  evident  assurance  that  there 
was  no  further  desideratum. 

We  passed  boats  loaded  with  vegetables,  boats 
piled  high  with  hay,  for  it  is  boats  rather  than 
wagons  upon  which  the  people  depend.  Yet  there 
are  farm-wagons  too,  and  mostly  of  one  type,  as  if 
run  out  of  a  common  mould;  high-set  wagons,  of 
varnished  oak,  round-topped,  with  cloth  on  slatted 
frames.  The  horses,  also,  are  mainly  of  one  type — 
in  Holland,  order  being  Heaven's  first  law — and 
that  type  is  a  sort  of  tan-colored,  easy  stepping, 
medium-sized  draught  horse,  and  from  the  boat  you 
now  and  then  see  one — seldom  a  pair  hitched  to- 
gether— driven  along  the  road,  that  frequently 
runs  on  the  dike  at  the  very  edge  of  the  canal. 

The  little  steamers  are  for  local  freight  and  pas- 
senger traffic,  and  the  rates  are  very  cheap.  But 
although  this  was  in  the  first  days  of  September, 
and  Europe  was  full  of  visitors,  we  passengers, 
besides  the  few  local  Dutch,  were  only  seven  in  all ! 
— a  family  of  five  Spanish-Mexicans,  banished  from 
home  through  the  troubles  there;  traveled  folk 
restlessly  spending  their  enforced  absence  from 
Mexico  in  revisiting  cities  they  most  loved  and 
giving  a  month  to  each  (Amsterdam  standing  high 
in  their  affections)  and  already  wondering  what  they 

[180] 


Watertochtjes  in  Holland 

should  do  when  a  few  more  cities  and  a  few  more 
months  should  be  exhausted;  and  only  one  other 
besides  myself:  a  Greek,  a  man  of  middle-age,  with 
a  really  classical  face,  who  could  readily  be  led  into 
ardent  talk  of  Athens  and  the  Parthenon  and  the 
blue  of  the  Grecian  sky.  He  spoke  a  fluent  French, 
but  no  English,  but  he  listened  intently  when  the 
Mexicans  spoke  English  to  me,  and  at  such  words 
as  " enthusiasm"  he  would  go  into  mild  rapture: 
" A  Greek  word!"  he  would  cry. 

Finding  so  few  on  the  steamer,  I  supposed  that 
visitors  to  Alkmaar  must  prosaically  go  by  train; 
by  train  is  the  only  way  in  which  Baedeker  tells 
how  to  get  there,  instead  of  by  this  delightful  water- 
tochtje;  but  at  least  on  the  day  I  was  there,  market- 
day  though  it  was,  none  went  by  train.  I  saw, 
however,  a  couple  of  English  folk  who  had  gone  by 
an  earlier  boat.  In  places  such  as  this,  not  large 
and  with  the  interest  centering  in  certain  well- 
defined  points,  one  may  always  know  how  many 
visitors  there  are  in  town. 

At  length  Alkmaar  was  reached,  and  the  cheese 
market  was  readily  found,  for  it  is  the  point  toward 
which  everything  and  everyone  naturally  gravitates. 

The  market  is  held  in  a  large  open  space  around 
the  ancient  weighing-house;  a  building  of  the  16th 
century,  built  at  that  period  for  this  purpose;  a 
building  of  beauty  and  distinction,  constructed  of 
brick  and  stone,  and  surmounted  by  a  tall  tower 

[18'] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

that  goes  up  in  diminishing  square  and  hexagon  to 
a  crown  that  overtops  all. 

Edam  cheeses,  of  the  familiar  round  cannon-ball 
shape,  are  gathered  and  handled  for  the  world  in 
the  shadow  of  this  old  weigh-house,  just  as  they 
have  been  gathered  and  handled  here  for  hundreds 
of  years. 

The  yellow  balls  are  for  Holland  consumption 
(Holland  is  loyal  to  its  own  cheese!)  and  the  familiar 
red  balls  are  for  the  export  trade;  and  all  are  ar- 
ranged in  numberless  long  piles,  usually  upon  can- 
vas, with  hundreds  and  hundreds  also  covered  with 
canvas  and  protected  thus  against  sun  or  rain. 
Men  are  loading  and  unloading  along  the  cheese 
wharf;  and  it  is  interesting  to  watch  them  handling 
the  cheeses,  for  they  so  cleverly  toss  or  roll  them; 
and  other  men  are  carrying  the  balls  into  or  out  of 
the  weighing-house.  The  hundreds  of  buyers  and 
sellers  are  in  busy  confabulation.  Everywhere 
there  is  an  atmosphere  of  geniality  and  frank  pleas- 
antness. 

Bargains  are  literally  "struck";  if  an  offered  price 
is  accepted  the  buyer  claps  his  hands  together  and 
the  deal  is  thus  closed.  And  decisions  are  quickly 
made,  for  the  Dutch  have  so  long  been  a  trading 
race  that  they  know  the  value  of  time.  Often  one 
hears  a  continued  volley  of  claps! 

Over  seven  thousand  tons  of  Edam  cheese  are 
handled  at  this  market  annually,  the  round  balls 

[182] 


Watertochtjes  in  Holland 

selling  here  for  an  average  of  about  sixty  cents, 
American,  apiece.  The  cheeses  are  carried  to  and 
fro  in  boat-shaped  cradles,  between  two  men  who 
wear  a  sort  of  harness  on  their  shoulders  and  barely 
lift  the  cradle  off  the  ground.  They  have  a  curious 
shuffling  trot  that  enables  them  to  carry  pyramided 
cheese  at  a  quick  pace,  and  never  a  cheese  rolls  off. 
They  are  a  picturesque  set  of  men,  these  bearers, 
perhaps  some  thirty  or  so  in  all,  dressed  in  suits  and 
stockings  of  white  (and  white  means  white  in  Hol- 
land!), with  hats,  according  to  the  color  of  the  scales 
to  which  they  are  to  go,  of  bright'  yellow,  bright 
red,  or  bright  blue. 

The  dealers  are  largely  cooperative;  most  have 
organized,  to  build  better  cheese  factories,  and  get 
better  prices  and  terms  for  less  expenditure;  although 
still  some  individual  farmers  prefer  to  do  their  own 
individual  business  in  their  own  individual  way. 
The  cooperation,  among  other  advantages  that  are 
pointed  out,  has  made  it  possible  to  hold  the  market 
weekly,  on  Fridays,  all  the  year;  because  by  band- 
ing together,  and  putting  their  milk  together, 
there  is  enough  for  the  making  of  cheese  even  in 
winter  time,  when  the  supply  of  the  individual 
might  by  itself  be  too  little. 

The  scene  at  the  market — and  it  is  mostly  in  the 
forenoon,  most  of  the  trafficking  being  over  by 
noon — is  pleasant  and  animated;  interesting  in 
itself  and  the  more  so  when  one  realizes  that  it  is 

[183] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

the  continuation  of  an  ancient  market,  in  the  town 
that  is  the  center  of  the  region  that  produces  Edam 
cheese.  And  every  fifteen  minutes  the  chimes  in 
the  weigh-house  tower  ring  out  strange  old  tunes. 

One  need  not  fear  being  stranded  in  an  out-of-the- 
way  place  with  little  to  eat,  for  close  beside  the 
market  is  a  restaurant  frequented  by  the  farmers 
and  their  customers;  and  I  remember  it,  not  only 
because  of  the  throng  that  literally  pack  it,  up- 
stairs and  down,  as  noon  approaches,  not  only 
because  of  the  excellence  of  its  service — for  almost 
every  restaurant  and  inn  in  Holland  is  excellent 
and  clean — not  only  because,  in  spite  of  its  rush  of 
custom,  it  sees  to  such  nice  points  as  giving  its 
customers  real  cream  for  their  coffee  and  the  sugar 
in  individual  little  packages,  but  from  the  careful 
particularity  with  which  the  prices  are  figured;  for 
although  I  was  a  stranger,  supposedly  not  over- 
conversant  with  a  Dutch  bill-of-fare  and  Dutch 
money,  and  although  there  was  such  a  rush  that 
hasty  adding  might  have  been  excused,  the  waiter 
figured  my  slip,  for  a  generous  meal,  to  the  correct 
hairsbreadth,  and  penciled  for  me  just  99  (Dutch) 
cents. 

Everything  is  impossibly  shining  and  clean  in 
Alkmaar:  the  people,  their  houses,  their  little  shops, 
the  cheese  market  itself,  the  very  streets. 

This  trip  to  Alkmaar  was  a  watertochtje  to  get  to 
a  definite  place,  but  I  think  that  on  the  whole  there 

[184] 


Watertochtjes  in  Holland 

is  even  more  interest  in  taking  watertochtjes  for 
their  own  sake,  without  definite  objective.  For  it 
is  an  ideal  way  to  get  at  the  very  heart  of  the  real 
country,  and  it  gives  one  such  absolutely  perfect 
hours  of  enjoyment.  One  comes  to  love  the  water- 
tochtje  for  itself  alone! 

Dordrecht,  itself  one  of  the  most  fascinating  cities 
of  Holland,  with  its  amazing  number  of  ancient 
houses,  is  the  best  place  from  which  to  take  water- 
tochtjes. It  is  itself  a  city  of  water  with  long  lines 
of  canal  within  its  limits;  more  than  any  other  city 
of  Holland,  it  may  fairly  be  called  a  Dutch  Venice 
— and  I  remember  that  one  morning  at  Dordrecht 
I  was  reminded  of  the  callow  traveler  who,  having 
visited  the  real  Venice,  was  asked  how  he  liked  it. 
"Why,"  he  replied,  "I  really  can't  say,  for  I  didn't 
see  it  properly;  I  was  there  only  one  day,  and  then 
all  the  streets  were  flooded."  Well,  I  saw  the  Dutch 
Venice  flooded,  after  a  night  of  tremendous  down- 
pour, and  it  was  certainly  a  strange  sight,  for  water 
was  up  over  the  wharves,  and  had  flooded  lower  floors 
and  cellars. 

The  watertochtjes  from  Dordrecht  can  be  taken 
in  little  sidewheel  steamers  that,  under  the  manage- 
ment of  a  man  rejoicing  in  the  delightful  name  of 
Fop  Smit — suggestive  of  the  name  of  an  American 
artist  and  author  who  loves  Dordrecht! — ply  fre- 
quently, at  regular  intervals,  over  the  Maas  and  the 
Waal,  to  Rotterdam,  some  miles  from  Dordrecht  in 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

one  direction,  and  Loevestein,  the  gloomy  old  for- 
tress prison,  noted  in  Netherland  history,  some 
miles  distant  in  the  other,  stopping  at  every  little 
town  on  the  way. 

Incidentally,  the  matter  of  rivers  is  itself  an  in- 
teresting one.  "Where  is  the  Rhine?"  the  traveler 
in  Holland  will  ask.  And  he  will  not  find  it.  It 
separates,  and  spreads  through  Holland  in  a  number 
of  great  outlets  to  the  sea,  and  the  Dutch  give  these 
outlets  names,  carefully  avoiding  that  of  "Rhine," 
or  Rhein,  as,  of  course,  the  Germans  have  it.  The 
Waal  is  a  part  of  the  Rhine;  it  unites  with  the  Maas 
(known  in  its  southern  course  as  the  Meuse),  and 
then,  going  on  to  the  North  Sea,  bears  neither  the 
name  of  the  Rhine  nor  Waal,  but  that  of  the  Maas. 
In  other  words,  the  Rhine  flows  into  the  Maas! 

The  circling  windmills,  the  superb  stretches  of 
low-lying  landscape,  the  passing  boats,  broad-beamed 
like  models  for  Dutch  skirts,  the  mellow  glory  of  the 
sky  and  water,  the  smiling  fields,  the  red-roofed 
villages,  the  river  itself,  giant-like  and  slow,  sweep- 
ing splendidly  around  mighty  bends,  the  branch- 
ing waterways  shimmering  across  endless  fields  of 
green — all  is  beautiful. 

And  you  will  get  off  at  some  little  village  at  ran- 
dom, and  you  will  walk  about,  nodded  to  cheerfully 
by  the  cheerful  busy  folk,  and  it  may  well  be  that 
you  are  the  first  American  in  the  place!  You  will 
see  the  homely,  comfortable  little  homes  and  the 

[186! 


WINDMILLS  SEEN  ON  A  WATERTOCHTJE 


• 

ome 


e  it. 

either 
at  that  of  the  Maas. 

of 

•  g  fields,   the   red-re 

:ity   bends,   the  bra^ 
across  endless  fields  of 
' 
• 

- 

may  well  be  that 
You  will 


Watertochtjes  in  Holland 

little  shops.  I  remember,  in  particular,  at  such  a 
village  a  tiny  shop  where  nothing  was  sold  but 
wooden  shoes.  "  These  are  fourteen  cents  a  pair 
[I  am  translating  into  American  cents],  these  are 
seventeen,  these  are  nineteen";  there  was  certainly 
no  effort  to  take  advantage  of  a  stranger,  and,  of 
course,  I  bought  a  pair  for  the  pure  pleasure  of  it. 

You  walk  about  for  a  while  in  these  out-of-the- 
way  and  fascinating  places — out-of-the-way  though 
so  near  the  visited  cities! — and  you  look  in  at  the 
little  shipyard  where  the  resin  smells  are  whole- 
somely sweet,  and  then  you  take  the  next  steamer 
and  sail  again  on  the  glorious  restful  water,  and 
when  you  feel  like  it  you  stop  off  at  some  other  place 
that  chances  especially  to  attract. 

After  all,  too,  this  is  the  country  from  which  our 
English  Pilgrims  sailed  to  Plymouth;  and  it  comes 
remindfully  that  they  had  sojourned  in  Holland  for 
some  years  when  one  sees,  here,  ancient-looking 
cradles  looking  precisely  like  the  cradle  in  which  was 
rocked  small  Peregrine  White,  the  first  child  born  in 
New  England. 

I  think  that  a  part  of  the  charm  of  these  inland 
voyages  comes  from  the  fact  that  one  looks  for 
long  distances  across  level  water  and  level  land. 
For  there  is  a  great  restfulness  in  it.  One  views  the 
scenery  with  such  absolute  ease,  with  no  craning 
of  the  neck  or  tilting  up  of  the  eyes,  that  he  is  ready 
to  appreciate  every  beauty  to  the  full. 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

A  friend,  a  London  physician,  a  man  of  travel 
and  intelligence,  accustomed  to  visit  Scotland  and 
the  Continent,  could  not  understand  why  I  cared  for 
Holland. 

"What  is  there  in  Holland  that  is  especially 
worth  while?"  he  asked.  "Frankly,  I  am  puzzled. 
What  is  it?" 

I  thought  of  the  splendid  cities,  rich  in  beauty 
and  in  brave,  historical  associations,  I  thought  of  the 
noble  museums  and  picture  galleries,  I  thought  of 
that  delightful  watering-place,  Scheveningen,  the 
home  of  the  hooded  beach-chair!  But  I  said  nothing 
of  all  these.  He  might  have  replied  that  other  coun- 
tries have  cities,  museums,  seaside  towns. 

"What  is  there?"  he  repeated. 

And  I  said,  knowing  that  there  was  nothing  that 
he  could  retort:  "There  are  the  watertochtjes!" 


XIII.  THE  OLD  RED  CITY  OF  ROTHENBURG 


T 

r     -„     ^•hte 


"\HERE    are    three   Ger- 
man  cities   that  are  of 
especial     interest    from 
the    standpoint    of    the 
picturesque;  cities  with 
a  wealth  of  the  ancient  German 
.architecture;    cities    filled    with 
the  spirit  of  centuries  ago.  They 
are  Niirnberg,  Hildesheim,  Roth- 
enburg,    these    three,    but    the 
most    picturesque    of    these    is 
Rothenburg. 

It  is  a  marvelous  city,  this  of 

Rothenburg  ob  der  Tauber;  a  fascinating  city,  out 
of  the  fascinating  past.  Everywhere  is  the  unbroken 
aspect  of  the  centuries  that  have  gone.  Ancient 
walls,  deep-moated,  loophole-pierced,  still  engird 
the  city.  Every  house  is  of  ancient  form;  almost 
every  house  is  in  actuality  ancient,  and  the  few  that 
fill  gaps  caused  by  fire  or  decay  have  been  strictly 
built  on  ancient  lines,  for  thus  the  city  has  consist- 
ently commanded — this  city  so  sonorously  named, 
this  Rothenburg  ob  der  Tauber. 

[189] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

It  is  a  city  of  crockets  and  pinnacles,  of  myriad 
towers  in  myriad  designs,  of  great  stone  fountains, 
of  houses  illimitably  dormered,  of  lofty  gables,  secret 
passages,  delectable  doorways,  windows  of  leaded 
glass;  of  street  lines  indented  by  house-fronts  pro- 
gressively projecting,  story  above  story.  "Es  sieht 
aus  als  wenn  man  ein  Bild  ansieht!" — thus  said  to 
me  an  enthusiastic  admirer  from  Berlin:  "It  is  as 
if  a  man  were  looking  at  a  picture!" 

For  a  thousand  years  Rothenburg  has  been  a 
city.  For  more  than  five  hundred  years  it  was  a 
Free  City  of  the  Empire.  It  is  not  like  those  ancient 
towns  which,  through  centuries  of  strife,  preserved 
their  entity  through  being  huddled  near  the  base  of 
some  great  castle;  it  is  not  like  those  towns  that 
were  protected  by  powerful  princes;  for  it  has  main- 
tained itself  by  its  own  unaided  sturdiness.  If 
great  barons  came  to  Rothenburg,  they  came  to 
receive  protection,  not  to  give  it,  or  else  they  came 
to  be  entertained  with  the  lavish  open-handedness 
that  made  the  city  a  place  to  which  emperors  them- 
selves found  pleasure  in  resorting. 

By  crusaders  and  pilgrims,  Rothenburg  was  held 
in  affectionate  regard,  not  only  for  its  generous 
hospitality,  but  because,  seen  from  the  river,  it  bore 
a  striking  resemblance  to  Jerusalem.  But  there  was 
order  in  those  times  of  turbulence;  and  in  an  old,  old 
house,  used  by  Palestine's  pilgrims,  and  still  known  as 
Pilgrims'  House,  there  is  an  ancient  stone,  bearing 

[190] 


The  Old  Red  City  of  Rothenburg 

upon  it  an  ancient  carving  of  a  hand  and  a  hatchet, 
with  the  ominous  inscription,  "He  who  quarrels 
in  this  house  shall  have  his  hand  cut  off." 

Yet  since  those  early  days  the  town  has  been  com- 
paratively forgotten.  Even  yet  it  has  not  become 
a  haunt  of  the  tourist  and  the  traveler,  although 
each  year  a  few  Americans  resort  thitherward,  bring- 
ing back  tales  of  this  city  that  out-Niirnbergs  Niirn- 
berg.  It  is  easily  reached,  being  on  a  little  branch 
line  from  the  railway  between  Frankfort  and  Munich. 
The  station  is  well  outside  of  the  walls,  and  the 
most  effective  way  is  to  reach  the  city  after  night- 
fall and  next  morning  step  out  into  its  streets  from 
dreamland. 

It  is  a  place  where  the  sightseer  cannot  go  wrong, 
for  everywhere  is  fascination.  There  are  both 
stateliness  and  beauty.  There  are  towering  houses 
with  crisscrossed  fronts.  There  are  charming  gar- 
dens, tucked  in  between  ancient  walls.  There  are 
ancient  stairways  of  stone  or  of  age-bleached  oak, 
circling  upward  around  a  central  pillar  from  base- 
ment to  roof.  There  are  casement  windows,  look- 
ing into  courtyards  of  alluring  charm.  The  city  is 
steeped  in  color,  for  the  long-rising  roofs  are  all  of 
old  red  tile.  It  was  long  since  that  wooden  roofs 
were  forbidden.  To  be  precise,  it  was  just  seven 
hundred  and  nine  years  ago. 

The  town  centers  around  its  town-hall,  its  Rath- 
haus.  This  is  a  superb  building,  huge  in  size  and  of 

[190 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

immense  dignity.  In  construction  it  is  a  composite 
of  the  centuries,  a  commingling  of  the  Gothic  and  the 
Renaissance;  yet  "Made  in  Germany"  is  distinc- 
tively in  every  line.  Here  are  the  municipal  meet- 
ing-rooms and  offices,  and  here  is  many  a  record  of 
the  past.  Here  are  paintings  of  long-since-forgotten 
battles,  and  great  iron  coffers,  made  to  hold  the 
city's  secrets  and  its  gold;  here  are  archives,  run- 
ning back  for  over  seven  hundred  years;  here  are 
parchments  jingling  with  great  ancient  seals,  some 
of  them  imperial;  here  is  the  "  Richtsstuhl,"  the  stone 
seat  of  justice;  here  are  grim  records  of  the  dungeons, 
done  in  old-time  black-letter,  telling  with  dry  brev- 
ity of  trials  and  punishments,  of  confessions  made 
under  torture  by  traitors  and  criminals,  and  even 
by  old-time  robber  knights  brought  by  the  burghers 
to  a  sharp  account. 

There  are  deep  dungeons  under  the  Rathhaus, 
reached  by  stairways  dripping  with  moisture,  into 
which  not  a  ray  of  light  can  enter;  and  in  one  of  these 
dungeons,  some  five  centuries  ago,  the  men  of  Roth- 
enburg  placed  the  burgomaster  who,  more  than  any 
other  in  the  long  burgomasterial  line,  gave  to  the 
city  power  and  wealth  and  prosperity.  But  they 
charged  him  with  conspiring  with  the  Emperor, 
and  not  only  gave  him  no  light,  but  edged  their 
animosity  by  deliberately  giving  him  no  food.  It 
is  in  all  a  fiercely  dramatic  story,  for  friends  who 
were  still  faithful  tunneled  to  the  cell  and  madly 


THE  WALL  OF  ROTHENBURG 


i   of 


ide   to 


ent  seals,  some 
tuhl,"  I 
f  the  dung 

h  dry  i 

md  crimina; 

it  by  the  b>ur 


r;  and 

mei 


ell  and 

7  3HT 


The  Old  Red  City  of  Rothenburg 

cut  through  its  prodigious  wall  and  reached  the 
prisoner — but  only  to  find  him  dead. 

Nowadays  they  treat  unpopular  burgomasters 
with  more  consideration.  Each  burgomaster  is 
chosen  for  three  years,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time 
he  is  either  elected  for  life  or  gives  place  to  a  succes- 
sor. But  an  election  for  life  does  not  give  unchecked 
power,  for  it  is  a  simple  matter  with  these  towns- 
folk, if  they  tire  of  a  life-chosen  mayor,  to  make  him 
"so  crazy  with  vexation,"  as  it  was  expressed  to  me, 
that  he  is  glad  to  resign  and  accept  the  pension  that 
they  palliatively  offer.  Only  recently  they  thus  got 
rid  of  one. 

I  climbed  the  tall  tower  of  the  Rathhaus,  entering 
that  part  of  the  building  through  a  Renaissance 
door  of  remarkable  distinction  and  beauty.  I 
climbed  on,  tempted  always  farther  by  foot-furrowed 
stairs,  quavering  floors,  crooked  galleries,  labyrin- 
thine fascination.  And  in  a  little  room  at  the  very 
top  I  found  a  white-haired,  white-bearded  man. 
He  lived  up  there,  he  and  a  fellow-watchman, 
keeping  ceaseless  lookout  for  fires  in  twelve-hour 
alternate  vigils.  Eight  times  an  hour  by  night, 
and  four  times  an  hour  by  day,  the  town  is  scanned; 
and  the  old  man  showed  me  with  pride  an  elabo- 
rate mechanism  which  keeps  check  on  his  faithful- 
ness. 

From  the  summit,  above  this  room,  is  a  never- 
forgetable  view  of  the  congregated  roofs,  the  peaks 

[193] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

and  gables,  the  pinnacle-perched  figures  of  stone, 
the  river,  and  the  far-reaching  plains. 

Three  times  a  week,  at  noon,  young  men  clamber 
to  this  tower-top,  and,  in  rain  or  sunshine,  in  heat 
or  in  cold,  trumpet  ancient  German  chorals  to  the 
north,  to  the  south,  to  the  east,  to  the  west,  in 
turn. 

They  love  music  in  Rothenburg,  and  it  is  an  in- 
cident of  most  functions,  public  or  private.  In 
front  of  the  Rathhaus,  when  wedding  formalities 
are  going  on  inside,  hired  musicians  loudly  drum  and 
trumpet,  whereat  the  people  come  running  from  all 
directions.  For  a  wedding  is  not  carried  on  with  the 
quietness  which  would  please  the  shy  and  retiring. 
Marriage  is  a  sacrament  neither  lightly  nor  secretly 
to  be  entered  into. 

On  the  night  before  the  wedding  it  is  considered 
de  rigueur  to  hurl  old  pots  and  pans  against  the 
house  of  the  bride,  with  boisterous  good  wishes; 
and  without  these  delicate  attentions  a  bride  would 
be  ill-pleased.  Her  two  best  friends  wait  upon  her 
during  the  din,  and  give  her  a  wreath  and  a  veil 
and  some  verses  composed  in  her  honor;  and  that 
the  verses  are  curiously  like  those  offered  to  brides 
in  the  past,  except  for  necessary  change  of  name, 
is  not  at  all  a  drawback.  Weddings  are  usually 
on  Tuesdays;  and  they  take  from  seven  in  the 
morning  till  four  or  five  in  the  afternoon,  including 
the  time  at  the  town  hall.  At  the  home  there  will 


The  Old  Red  City  of  Rothenburg 

likely  be  a  little  play  given,  in  which  are  set  forth 
the  supposed  foibles  of  the  bride  and  groom;  and 
some  friend,  masquerading  as  a  gipsy,  will  come  in 
and  give  whatever  kind  of  prophecy  best  accords 
with  his  wit.  Race  suicide  is  seldom  prophesied; 
it  is,  in  fact,  unpopular  in  Rothenburg,  as  is  seen 
from  the  number  of  boys  and  girls  going  with  shin- 
ing morning  face  to  school.  If  there  has  been  a 
jilted  girl,  delicate  and  kind-hearted  friends  spread 
a  path  of  chopped  straw  from  her  door  to  the 
house  where  the  wedding  festivities  are  in  prog- 
ress. 

One  day  I  saw  a  Rothenburg  funeral.  There  had 
been  services  at  the  church,  and  I  saw  a  long  proces- 
sion winding  toward  that  one  of  the  city  gates  that 
looks  out  toward  the  Gottesacker  beyond  the  city 
walls.  All  were  on  foot,  save  a  few  of  the  imme- 
diate family.  Six  women,  bearing  huge  wreaths  of 
flowers  and  greenery,  led  the  long  line,  and  three 
women,  with  wreaths  of  greenery  alone,  brought 
up  its  rear.  Following  the  leading  six  came  round- 
eyed  choir-boys,  and  behind  them  the  members  of 
a  corps,  with  varnished  boots  that  came  far  above 
the  knees,  and  white  trousers,  and  fancy  jackets 
with  enormous  white  cuffs  fastened  on  the  outside 
of  the  sleeves,  and  gilt  swords,  and  the  most  tiny  of 
diminutive  caps.  Some  score  or  so  of  elderly  men, 
velvet-capped,  white-rabbeted,  followed — for  it  was 
the  son  of  a  dignitary  of  the  town  who  had  died — 

[195] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

and  then  a  long  line  of  men  in  the  unwonted 
glory  of  silk  hats.  Besides  the  wreath-bearers, 
there  were  no  women  marching,  but  in  the  grave- 
yard groups  of  them  hovered  vaguely  among  the 
trees. 

It  was  a  winter  day,  and  every  twig  of  every 
tree  was  white  with  frozen  mist.  The  shrill  young 
voices  of  the  choir-boys  rose  frostily  on  the  frosty 
air,  and  the  pastor  spoke  feelingly  of  the  aged 
father's  grief:  "My  son,  my  son,  would  God  I  had 
died  for  thee!"— and  the  people  slowly  dispersed, 
and  the  relatives  and  friends  went  back  to  the  house 
of  bereavement  to  partake  of  the  funeral  baked 
meats. 

The  cozy,  cheerful,  homelike  aspect  of  the  city 
would  point  out  to  even  the  most  casual  observer 
that  in  the  past  there  were  not  only  steel-clad 
knights  and  a  humble  peasantry,  but  a  prosperous 
citizen  class  with  delightful  home  life  and  sheltered 
firesides.  There  is  a  multitude  of  homely  names  for 
streets  and  buildings;  such  names  as  the  Sexton's 
Tower,  the  Cheese  Chamber,  the  Vinegar  Jug,  the 
Dog  Tower,  the  Pig's  Tower,  Little  Dumpling 
Street,  the  House  of  the  Cook  of  the  Servants' 
Food,  and — innocent  of  all  knowledge  of  Barrie — 
the  Street  of  the  Little  Minister. 

In  the  little  shops  one  finds  artisans  in  wood,  in 
copper,  in  leather,  in  iron;  and  it  is  a  joy  to  come 
across  a  maker  of  knives  actually  named  Hierony- 


The  Old  Red  City  of  Rothenburg 

mus!  There  are  numerous  shops  bearing  the  words 
"Kolonial  Waaren,"  which  are  apt  to  give  to  an 
American  enticing  suggestions  of  blue  china  and 
old-time  wares,  but  which,  of  course,  refer  only  to 
the  spices  and  coffee  of  the  colonies. 

A  citizen  of  the  town  is  a  man  who  pays  taxes 
up  to  a  certain  moderate  amount  in  addition  to  hav- 
ing won  by  a  residence  of  some  years  the  "right  of 
home."  It  is  well  to  exercise  care  in  bestowing  the 
right  of  citizenship,  for  if  poverty  comes  to  a  citi- 
zen, the  town  is  bound  to  care  for  him,  and  his  right 
to  vote  remains. 

It  is  amusing  to  find  that  ward  caucus  and  vote 
management  are  so  well  understood  here  that  the 
names  of  nominees  for  the  office  of  burgomaster,  or 
for  membership  in  the  Gemeindekollegium,  can 
usually  be  known  in  advance,  as  can  also  the  result 
of  an  election.  After  all,  these  people  have  voted 
for  centuries,  and  why  should  they  be  unsophis- 
ticated ! 

Inscriptions  over  gates  and  doorways  are  com- 
mon. "Deutsches  Haus — Deutsches  Land — Schirm 
dich  Gott  mit  starker  Hand,"  are  the  bravely 
reverent  words  put  up  long  since  by  a  bravely 
reverent  citizen.  Above  one  of  the  city  gates  is  the 
cordial  "Pax  intrantibus,  Salus  exeuntibus."  Upon 
one  of  the  buildings  is  a  very  old  inscription,  in  the 
shortest  and  briefest  words,  that  "He  who  has  no 
grief  may  wipe  out  this  rhyme."  And  the  people 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

tell  with  awe  that  a  recently  married  couple  said 
to  each  other,  "Let  us  so  live  as  to  wipe  that 
out!" — and  that  in  two  weeks  the  husband  was 
dead. 

Pleasant  little  customs  are  still  perpetuated. 
The  Thursday  before  Easter  is  known  as  Green 
Thursday,  and  garlic  is  the  time-honored  dish  for 
that  day;  but  if  any  green  vegetable  is  on  the  table 
there  will  be  money  for  the  household  for  all  the 
year.  The  fourth  Thursday  before  Christmas 
children  go  from  door  to  door  with  baskets,  and  are 
given  apples  and  nuts  and  raisins.  The  city  has  less 
than  9000  inhabitants,  and  each  man  knows  his 
neighbor. 

There  are  still  retained  certain  pleasant  little 
superstitions.  If  a  girl,  drinking  coffee,  is  so  un- 
fortunate as  to  put  in  the  cream  before  the  sugar 
she  is  sure  not  to  be  married  within  seven  years, 
and  it  is  amusing  to  see  with  what  eagerness  the 
sugar  is  always  dropped  in. 

There  were  at  one  time  patricians  in  the  city. 
All  cities  get  them,  although  they  do  not  always  go 
by  that  name.  But  Rothenburg  not  only  got  them, 
but  got  rid  of  them. 

The  patrician  class  arose  naturally,  for  the  early 
patricians  were  leaders  who  deserved  to  be  leaders; 
men  of  sagacity  and  character  and  wealth  and 
public  spirit,  and  they  put  up  great  houses,  which 
are  still  standing — houses  with  coats-of-arms  and 

[198] 


The  Old  Red  City  of  Rothenburg 

elaborate  carvings,  and  groined  ceilings  and  oriel 
windows;  houses  opulent  in  size,  with  infinity  of 
felicitous  detail. 

But  their  descendants,  taking  over  the  houses 
and  the  wealth,  were  without  the  sagacity  and  the 
public  spirit,  and  Rothenburg  decided  to  be  rid  of 
them.  The  city  was  of  the  Reformation,  and  there- 
fore looked  askance  at  a  huge  convent  within  its  pre- 
cincts, with  moat  and  walls  and  gates  of  its  own. 
And  it  came  to  pass  that  charges  were  made  that 
patricians  were  in  the  flagitious  habit  of  visiting 
after  visiting  hours;  whereupon  the  patricians  and 
their  order  were  done  away  with  and  the  nunnery 
suppressed  and  confiscated.  They  got  rid,  too,  of 
the  Jews — for  it  is  curious  how  intolerant  a  tolerant 
people  can  be.  The  Jews,  they  said,  realizing  how 
much  Rothenburg  resembles  the  sacred  city  of 
Palestine,  intended  to  poison  the  inhabitants  and 
take  possession  of  their  city  as  the  New  Jerusalem! 
And  on  the  strength  of  this  supposed  intent  the 
Jews  were  killed  or  banished  and  their  property 
seized. 

Following  the  seizing  of  the  convent,  they  also 
took  over  a  monastery  and  the  Catholic  churches. 
But  they  were  not  so  intolerant  as  to  destroy  this 
property.  There  is  a  distinctly  canny  strain  in  the 
Rothenburg  character.  They  not  only  found  the 
confiscated  churches  admirable  for  the  new  wor- 
ship, but  also  retained  many  an  old  religious  figure 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

and  painting,  and  kept  in  place  the  altars  with  their 
saints  and  angels. 

I  saw  not  a  beggar  in  Rothenburg;  yet  the  city  is 
a  tramps'  paradise.  For  tramps  and  wayfarers  are 
lodged  for  a  night  in  a  building  just  outside  the 
walls,  and  are  given  warm  rooms  and  good  food. 
Each  Christmas-tide  they  are  given  a  tree  and 
special  Christmas  cheer. 

The  poor  belonging  to  the  town  itself  are  cared 
for  in  such  an  ideal  way  as  to  make  poverty  no 
punishment,  as,  indeed,  it  ought  not  to  be  when  a 
man  has  lived  the  sturdy  life  of  Rothenburg.  For 
the  favorite  way  of  disposing  of  the  poor  is  to  dis- 
tribute them  in  wonderfully  picturesque  little  homes 
in  towers  and  lookouts  along  the  city  walls;  homes 
perched  and  hanging  like  swallows'  nests  along  the 
ramparts. 

The  ancient  costumes  have  almost  vanished; 
and  yet  there  are  still  women  who  wear  the  green  or 
purple  sleeves,  the  bands  crossed  over  the  breast, 
the  bright-hued  kerchief  close-tied  on  the  head;  and 
there  are  old  men  doddering  about  in  blue  blouses 
and  tasseled  caps. 

Down  whichever  street  one  turns  there  is  a  revel 
of  picturesque  architecture.  The  houses  are  in  gen- 
eral from  four  to  six  stories  in  height,  built  against 
one  another,  and  usually  with  half-timbered  fronts 
in  intricate  and  beautiful  designs.  There  is  every- 
where a  charming  complexity  of  gables  and  corbels 

[200] 


A  CORNER  IN  THE  OLD  RED  CITY 


OL 


tt 


The  Old  Red  City  of  Rothenburg 

and  towers.  There  are  glorious  projecting  windows. 
There  are  dusky  niches  and  echoing  corners.  There 
are  rude  blue-slatted  or  green-slatted  wagons,  drawn 
by  a  single  horse,  hitched  far  over  at  one  side. 
There  is  the  mail-cart  driver  who,  approaching  the 
post-office,  plays  loudly  on  a  horn  for  the  full  length 
of  the  street.  "His  own  composition!"  say  the 
townsfolk,  with  pride. 

The  city  is  delightfully  seen  from  the  covered 
way  along  the  inside  of  the  city  walls,  just  under  the 
top,  the  place  where  sentinels  and  soldiers  of  the  past 
watched  and  peered  and  aimed  their  weapons  at 
the  enemy.  For  not  only  is  the  city  charmingly 
seen  from  this  height  of  vantage,  but  through  the 
loop-holed  apertures  one  may  have  piquant  glimpses 
of  the  country  beyond  the  walls  and  of  the  river 
with  its  ancient  double  bridge. 

It  was  back  in  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  it  was  in 
1631,  that  the  principal  event  in  the  history  of  the 
city  took  place:  the  principal  event,  in  the  judg- 
ment of  every  inhabitant.  It  is  annually  com- 
memorated by  a  play,  a  pageant,  in  which  all  that 
happened  in  the  course  of  the  great  day — the  day 
of  the  Meister-trunk,  the  Master  Drink — is  repre- 
sented by  generals  and  counsellors,  soldiers  and 
people,  costumed  in  character,  in  the  streets,  in  the 
market-place,  in  the  Rathhaus. 

For  the  ferocious  Tilly  captured  the  city,  and, 
enraged  by  his  losses,  declared  that  the  town  should 

[201] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

be  destroyed,  the  leading  inhabitants  slain,  and  the 
rest  turned  over  to  the  soldiery.  But  women  and 
children  wailed  lamentably  as  he  rode  to  the  Rath- 
haus,  and  clung  to  his  stirrup  imploring  mercy. 
And  he  flung  them  mercy  with  contempt.  "Let 
the  dogs  live,"  he  said;  "I  will  be  merciful.  None 
but  the  burgomaster  and  all  the  counsellors  of  the 
town  shall  die." 

He  went  into  the  great  room  of  the  Rathhaus, 
and  called  for  wine,  and  a  frightened  girl  carried 
in  a  huge  and  brimming  goblet — a  goblet  so  huge 
that  he  burst  into  a  great  laugh.  "Am  I  to  drink 
this?"  he  said,  holding  it  up.  And  then  grim  humor 
seized  him.  "If  any  man  of  Rothenburg  will  drink 
this  at  a  single  draught  I  will  spare  the  city  and 
spare  every  life!" 

There  was  a  great  silence,  and  then  a  former 
burgomaster,  a  certain  Nusch — his  name  is  worthy 
of  remembrance — stepped  intrepidly  forward  and 
took  the  goblet  from  Tilly's  hand.  He  drank,  and 
the  silence  deepened  as  the  foot  of  the  goblet  slowly 
rose  in  the  air;  he  drank  and  drank  till  every  drop 
was  drained.  Then  he  fell  senseless  to  the  floor. 

"Revive  him!"  said  Tilly;  and  Nusch  came  slowly 
back  to  life. 

Tilly  was  a  good  loser.  "You  have  won,"  he  said, 
admiringly,  as  the  man  raised  himself  and  looked 
around. 

Whereat  Rothenburg's  hero  could  only  gasp  out* 

[202] 


The  Old  Red  City  of  Rothenburg 

with  a  touch  of  good  old-fashioned  humor  even  in 
such  a  presence: 

"I  never — could — save — another  town!" 


XIV.    LIECHTENSTEIN:  A  SOVEREIGN 
STATE 

T  was  really  preposterous  that 
in  spite  of  the  many  years 
;  during  which  the  many,  many 
thousands  have  been  crossing 
the  ocean  to  Europe,  I  should 
be  the  first  of  Americans  to 
set  foot  within  the  boundaries 
of  an  independent  principal- 
ity in  Europe's  very  heart! 
But  the  governor  told  me  I  was  the  first,  and  the 
innkeeper  told  me  I  was  the  first,  and  I  assuredly 
had  no  desire  to  find  them  mistaken. 

There  are  still  existent  several  tiny  and  autono- 
mous little  countries  in  Europe.  There  is  Monaco — 
visited  by  a  great  many  Americans.  There  is  San 
Marino — visited  by  a  few  Americans.  There  is  An- 
dorra— visited  rarely  by  an  American.  And  there  is 
Liechtenstein. 

And  Liechtenstein,  in  spite  of  its  being  so  long 
a  place  by  itself,  is  not  tucked  inaccessibly  away. 
That  is  the  marvel  of  it!  Travelers  going  east- 
ward to  Innsbruck  go  under  the  shadow  of  the 
Drei  Schwestern,  not  for  a  moment  thinking  that 
on  the  other  side  of  those  mountains  is  this  little 

[204] 


Liechtenstein:  A  Sovereign  State 

unvisited  state,  that  the  towering  peaks  look  down 
upon  Liechtenstein.  Other  travelers,  on  their  way 
to  Davos-Platz,  have  glanced  at  a  distant  little 
town  at  the  foot  of  a  castled  rock,  without  sus- 
pecting that  they  were  looking  at  an  unvisited 
capital  of  Europe. 

Liechtenstein  is  in  the  Eastern  Alps,  bordering 
the  upper  Rhine.  Switzerland  is  its  boundary  on 
the  other  side  of  that  river.  On  the  side  of  the  Drei 
Schwestern  it  is  hemmed  in  by  Austria.  The  fron- 
tier of  Germany  is  only  a  few  miles  away.  It  has 
been  independent  for  over  two  centuries,  and  was 
forgotten  by  Bismarck,  so  runs  the  local  pleasantry, 
at  the  broad  reorganization  following  the  Prussian 
wars  with  Austria  and  France. 

It  is  easily  reached  from  any  direction,  for  it  is 
near  the  Lake  of  Constance.  I  went  there  from 
Southern  Germany,  from  Nuremberg,  by  the  way 
of  Ulm;  and  at  Ulm  I  saw  a  little  river,  the  Donau, 
so  blue  as  to  call  to  mind  those  music-famed  rivers, 
the  "blue  Juniata"  and  the  "beautiful,  blue  Dan- 
ube"— and  this  is  really  the  Danube,  masquerad- 
ing thus  under  the  name  of  Donau! — although,  of 
course,  its  real  name  is  the  Donau,  and  we  haven't 
any  right  to  call  it  the  Danube. 

One  often  comes  upon  a  new  city  or  a  new  river 
in  Europe,  only  to  find  that  it  is  really  a  very  old 
acquaintance.  Vienna,  for  example,  is  really  Wien; 
Florence,  if  given  its  own  name,  would  always  be 

[205] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

called  Firenze;  the  grotesque  Leghorn  ought  really 
to  be  the  soft  Livorno;  Hanover  should  have  two 
"n's" — the  English,  in  taking  their  kings  thence, 
having  dropped  an  "n"  in  the  process  instead  of, 
as  might  have  been  expected,  dropping  an  "h"; 
and  the  Danube,  as  has  just  been  remarked,  is 
really  the  Donau. 

Passing  Ulm  and  the  Donau,  it  is  not  long  before 
the  Lake  of  Constance  is  reached;  the  lake  of  the 
Zeppelin  air-ships;  a  lake  that  is  somehow  more 
American  of  aspect  than  Swiss — perhaps  because 
there  is  a  good  deal  of  rather  level  land  about  it 
and  that  where  mountains  are  seen  they  give  no 
impression  of  great  height;  at  any  rate,  it  looks  like 
the  rounding  end  of  one  of  our  own  Great  Lakes. 
The  train  left  me  at  Friedrichshafen,  and  there  I 
took  a  little  steamer  for  Bregenz;  there  are  many 
little  steamers  plying  busily  on  the  forty-mile-long 
lake;  and  at  Bregenz,  which  I  remember  as  a  pleas- 
ant town  with  some  charming  tilleuls  (fetching 
name!),  I  spent  the  night.  I  forget  the  name  of  the 
inn  I  chose,  but  it  had  a  very  obliging  landlord,  and 
I  found  it  to  be  a  cross  between  Swiss  and  Austrian 
in  character.  Had  I  known  that  I  was  to  be  really  an 
explorer  in  Liechtenstein,  I  should  not  have  been 
as  patient  as  I  was  with  the  over-night  stay  in 
Bregenz,  so  near  the  goal;  but,  although  I  knew 
that  Liechtenstein  had  not  been  written  about,  had 
not  been  exploited,  in  America,  it  had  never  oc- 

[206] 


Liechtenstein:  A  Sovereign  State 

curred  to  me  that  at  least  some  of  our  people  had 
not  been  there. 

Next  morning,  a  fine,  crisp,  winter's  morning,  in 
February,  I  left  Bregenz  and  by  a  typical  leisurely 
train,  with  frequent  stops,  arrived  after  a  journey 
of  25  miles,  at  Feldkirch.  There  I  found  a  post- 
wagon  ready  to  start,  as  soon  as  the  mail  was  handed 
over,  for  Vaduz,  and  a  short  drive  of  two  miles, 
through  a  charming  hill  country,  took  me  into  the 
pleasant,  cheerful  town,  the  capital. 

For  an  atmosphere  of  cheerfulness,  of  content,  of 
simple  happiness  was  everywhere.  This  was  ap- 
parent when  I  first  entered  the  principality  and  its 
capital,  and  it  became  more  marked,  more  visible, 
as  day  by  day  I  stayed  there  and  went  about  among 
the  people.  And  this  I  found  to  be  owing  to  their 
simple  and  secluded  life,  for  not  many  visitors  of 
any  nationality  go  there — that  being  the  reason  for 
its  being  so  long  overlooked  by  Americans — and 
still  more  owing  to  the  mild  and  beneficent  rule  of 
their  prince. 

They  are  allowed  great  liberty,  in  a  humble  and 
whimsical  way,  and  with  seeming  temerity  can 
manage  to  tax  their  prince — much  to  his  amuse- 
ment, doubtless,  for  he  is  an  enormously  wealthy 
man  and  sees  to  the  upkeep  of  practically  every- 
thing in  the  principality;  although  this  does  not 
mean  that  the  people  are  not  hard-working  and 
frugal,  for  they  are  both. 

[207] 


.     Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

The  prince  has  various  homes,  for  he  is  one  of  the 
wealthiest  men  in  Europe,  and  owns  great  estates  in 
Austria,  Prussia,  and  Saxony,  besides  being  heredi- 
tary ruler  of  this  region  beside  the  Rhine.  His 
estates  total  more  than  two  thousand  square  miles, 
whereas  his  principality  of  Liechtenstein  is  but 
68  square  miles! 

A  very  earnest  people  are  these  subjects  of  his  in 
Liechtenstein;  a  very  earnest  folk,  who  seem  to  feel 
that  they  are  of  quite  as  much  value  to  their  prince 
as  he  is  to  them;  and  probably  they  are  quite  right, 
for  no  possession  could  be  better  for  a  prince  than 
loyal  and  hard-working  and  cheerful-hearted  subjects. 

Liechtenstein  is  a  highly  elongated  principality, 
with  its  width  squeezed  to  a  minimum  between  the 
mountains  and  the  Rhine.  One  thinks  of  Mark 
Twain's  jibe  in  regard  to  the  kingdoms  of  Palestine 
in  the  time  of  Joshua,  when  "people  had  to  sleep 
with  their  knees  pulled  up  because  they  couldn't 
stretch  out  without  a  passport."  Well,  he  could 
have  said  that  in  Liechtenstein  people  have  to  sleep 
lengthwise  of  the  country! 

"Ah!  It  is  a  happy  land!"  an  old  man  said  to 
me. 

And  it  is.  There  is  no  military  service.  There 
is  no  national  debt.  There  is  a  tax,  but  it  is  merely 
nominal,  being  only  a  tenth  the  size  of  that  of 
neighboring  Austria.  The  ruling  prince  gives  freely 
for  the  good  of  his  people  out  of  his  private  fortune. 

[208] 


Liechtenstein:  A  Sovereign  State 

So  far  from  deriving  any  revenue  from  his  princi- 
pality, he  pays  heavily  for  the  pleasure  of  holding  it. 
But  what  a  pleasure  it  must  be! 

There  is  a  customs  and  fiscal  agreement  with 
Austria,  but  it  is  merely  an  arrangement,  for  mutual 
convenience,  between  two  independent  powers.  And 
the  money  thus  raised  from  customs,  some  thousands 
of  dollars  annually,  is  spent  within  the  principality. 
The  insignificant  tax  paid  by  the  people  themselves 
isjmainly  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  up  the  dike 
which  holds  back  the  Rhine  from  the  narrow  stretch 
of  tillable  land  which  the  country  possesses;  for 
when  high  winter  is  over,  and  the  water  comes  down 
from  the  mountains  in  innumerable  streams,  the 
Rhine  is  no  longer  a  quiet  river,- flowing  in  wide 
meanderings  over  its  gravelled  bed,  but  is  a  great 
and  dangerous  torrent. 

Liechtenstein— "bright  stone" — and  the  white- 
built  capital,  Vaduz,  nestles  confidingly  at  the  foot 
of  a  great  white  cliff,  and  on  the  cliff  stands  the  old 
white  castle,  and  above  the  castle  there  are  tower- 
ing white-capped  heights.  Yet  the  whiteness  of 
fact  and  of  name  is  but  a  curious  coincidence,  for 
the  name  of  Liechtenstein  originated  elsewhere, 
and  came  to  the  principality  when  it  first  secured 
independence,  something  over  two  hundred  years 
ago. 

"Vallis  dulcis" — from  this  comes  the  name  of 
Vaduz;  and  it  is  in  truth  a  sweet  and  smiling  valley 

[209] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

in  which  it  lies;  a  narrow  stretch,  yet,  after  all,  of 
breadth  sufficient  for  flax  and  maize,  for  apples  and 
pears  and  plums,  for  homely  vegetables.  A  valley 
as  level  as  a  floor,  yet  in  Switzerland  on  the  one 
side,  and  along  the  Austrian  boundary  on  the  other, 
tremendous  mountains  overshadowingly  arise. 

Like  a  page  from  a  fairy-book  is  the  story  of 
Liechtenstein,  past  and  present — this  independent 
principality,  whose  ruler,  from  his  castle  above  his 
capital,  can  see  practically  all  of  his  domain  in  one 
great  sweep:  the  solemn  mountain  walls,  and  the 
level  stretch  along  the  riverside,  with  here  and  there 
a  spire,  a  ruined  tower,  or  clustered  homes. 

The  founder  of  the  house  of  Liechtenstein  is  said 
to  have  been  a  Lombard  who  made  his  way  north- 
ward from  Italy  in  the  twelfth  century,  and  becom- 
ing rich  through  lending  to  princes  and  sovereigns, 
took  pay  in  land  by  preference,  and  finally,  securing 
a  title,  married  a  princess,  and  was  thenceforth  a 
prominent  lord. 

Some  one  has  remarked  on  "how  prudently  most 
men  creep  into  nameless  graves,"  but  the  men  of  the 
Liechtenstein  family  have  been  of  a  kind  to  make 
themselves  uniquely  known.  Ulric  von  Liechten- 
stein, the  "Don  Quixote  of  Germany,"  was  of  a 
branch  of  this  house:  the  poet-knight,  who,  with 
suits  of  apparel  of  purest  white,  with  twelve  white- 
clad  attendants,  with  spears  and  helmets  all  of  white, 
went  through  Italy  and  Germany,  breaking  lances 

[210] 


A  THOUSAND  YEARS  OLD  AND  NEVER  CAPTURED 


>f  Ok 


on  the  one 
a  the  other, 

>  the  story  of 

icati}  -    domain  in  • 

walls,  and  the 
rive;  here  and  there 

homes. 

said 
north- 

y,  and  becom- 

;nd  sovereigns, 

>d  finally,  securing 

thenceforth  a 

•w  prudently  r 
the  men  of  the 
d  to  r; 
Li  ech ten- 
was  c 


vcive 


Liechtenstein:  A  Sovereign  State 

with  hundreds  of  knights  for  the  glory  of  Venus,  in 
whose  name  he  fought. 

With  the  branch  that  secured  this  principality 
the  love  of  land  rather  than  that  of  Venus  seems  to 
have  held  sway,  for  the  present  reigning  Prince  is 
well  over  sixty,  and  has  never  married,  and  his 
brother  Franz,  the  heir  apparent,  is  also  a  bachelor. 
Under  such  circumstances,  other  relatives  become 
of  importance,  and  it  is  interesting  to  note  that  a 
cousin  married  Mary  Fox,  adopted  daughter  of  the 
famous  Lord  and  Lady  Holland,  and  that  another 
cousin  married,  in  1903,  the  Archduchess  Marga- 
retha,  sister  of  the  future  Emperor  of  Austria. 

The  population  of  Liechtenstein,  with  few  ex- 
ceptions, are  peasants,  self-respecting,  hard-working, 
and  shrewd,  and  in  the  past  they  have  been  a  rest- 
less folk,  vigilantly  looking  for  every  opportunity 
to  exact  a  new  privil  3ge. 

To  their  Prince  of  three-quarters  of  a  century  ago 
they  staidly  represented  that  the  expense  connected 
with  such  illuminations  and  celebrations  as  were 
consequent  on  their  having  a  ruler  was  very  con- 
siderable; and  he,  hugely  amused,  agreed  to  pay  them 
a  certain  annual  concession  on  this  account.  Since 
then  the  reigning  Prince's  birthday  is  a  principal 
fete-day  of  the  year. 

A  predecessor,  similarly  impressed  by  their  power 
of  thrifty  logicalness,  had  already  relieved  the  people 
of  the  entire  expense  of  the  civil  administration. 

[211] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

Following  the  close  of  the  war  between  Austria 
and  Prussia,  in  which  Liechtenstein  allied  itself 
with  Austria,  there  came  another  gravely  presented 
protest.  The  citizens  were  weary  of  the  expense  of 
a  standing  army;  an  army  which,  consisting  of 
eighty  men,  with  a  captain  and  a  trumpeter,  had 
bravely  marched  toward  the  scene  of  hostilities, 
but  too  late  to  arrive  before  the  war  had  come  to 
its  swift  end. 

There  could  be  but  one  outcome  of  this  new  repre- 
sentation. When  the  men  of  Liechtenstein  pro- 
posed, it  was  not  for  their  prince  to  dispose  other- 
wise; and  since  then  there  has  been  no  army.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  prince  had  about  decided  to  disband 
it  in  any  case,  and  was  glad  of  so  plausible  an  excuse. 

Not  only  is  there  no  army,  but  there  has  been  no 
formal  treaty  of  peace,  Liechtenstein  having  been 
quite  overlooked  in  the  negotiations;  and  a  few  old 
men,  oncewhile  soldiers,  like  to  say,  gleefully,  that 
Liechtenstein  and  Prussia  are  therefore  still  in  a 
state  of  war! 

When  Johann  the  Second,  the  present  prince, 
came  to  the  rulership  he  began  to  build  a  great  new 
palace  near  Vienna,  and  the  Liechtenstein  folk, 
fearing  that  he  would  follow  the  example  of  his 
immediate  predecessor  and  divide  his  time  among 
his  various  estates  instead  of  spending  it  in  his 
principality,  anxiously  laid  before  him  the  considera- 
tion that  if  he  would  but  spend  more  of  his  time  at 

[212] 


Liechtenstein:  A  Sovereign  State 

Vaduz  there  would  be  marked  benefit  to  the  local 
business  of  the  country. 

He  was  not  prepared  to  promise  definitely  in 
regard  to  this;  and,  in  fact,  he  has  visited  Liechten- 
stein only  at  irregular  intervals,  sometimes  two  or 
three  years  apart;  but  he  gave  them  an  intimation 
of  a  scheme  which  he  was  perfecting  which  would 
be  of  far  greater  advantage  to  them  than  his  fre- 
quent personal  presence.  His  desire  was  to  make  the 
government  a  constitutional  monarchy,  and  he  soon 
carried  his  plans  into  effect. 

There  is  now  a  written  constitution.  There  is  a 
little  Parliament  of  fifteen  members.  Three  mem- 
bers are  named  by  the  Prince.  Twelve  are  elected 
by  the  people,  every  man  in  Liechtenstein  over 
twenty-four  years  of  age  having  a  vote.  The  little 
body  meets  once  in  every  year  and  remains  in  session 
for  several  weeks,  engaged  in  the  very  attenuation 
of  discussion  of  petty  things.  And  the  Prince  has 
succeeded  in  giving  the  people  contentment  and 
personal  pride. 

Above  the  Parliament  is  the  Prince's  personal 
representative,  the  Landesverweser  or  Governor, 
a  man  of  standing  and  ability,  chosen  from  outside 
the  principality;  and  under  his  direction,  as  adjuncts 
in  the  practical  administration,  is  an  informal 
cabinet,  consisting  of  the  Secretary  of  State,  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  the  Chief  Justice, 
the  State  Engineer,  and  the  Director  of  Forests. 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

And  yet,  with  all  this  pomp  of  title,  one  would 
look  in  vain  for  extravagance  or  display.  On  the 
contrary,  there  is  an  air  of  Spartan  simplicity. 

Practically  speaking,  although  constitutional  for- 
malities are  rigidly  observed,  the  government  is 
that  of  an  admirable  paternal  despotism.  The 
Prince  is  really  the  father  of  his  people.  The  Parlia- 
ment would  never  dream  of  going  against  his  will 
further  than  could  be  expressed  by  respectful  pro- 
test. And,  as  a  means  of  control  in  case  of  need, 
there  is  far  more  than  the  power  of  the  veto;  for  the 
Prince  having  given  the  constitution,  the  Prince 
can  take  it  away. 

There  are  only  a  few  in  Liechtenstein  who  are 
more  than  moderately  well-to-do.  Most  of  the 
members  of  Parliament  saw  their  own  wood.  There 
are  few  men  servants  or  maid  servants.  There  are 
no  poor,  except  such  as  are  ill  or  decrepit,  and  they 
are  kindly  cared  for.  Crime  is  reduced  to  a  mini- 
mum. There  are  few  offenders  against  the  law. 
"But  there  are  cells  for  twenty!"  says  the  Gover- 
nor. The  punitive  imagination  of  the  government 
can  go  no  further. 

There  are  kindergartens  and  admirable  advanced 
schools.  In  one  French  is  taught  to  peasant  girls. 
The  Prince,  a  devout  Catholic,  as  is  every  one  of  his 
subjects,  has  built  Gothic  churches  in  the  larger 
towns,  that  in  Vaduz  costing  him  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars.  The  roads  are  kept  in  perfect  condition. 

[2,4] 


Liechtenstein:  A  Sovereign  State 

Scattered  through  every  village  are  stone  foun- 
tains, perpetually  gushing,  to  which  water  is  brought 
down  from  inexhaustible  mountain  springs. 

As  the  knowledge  of  the  manifold  advantages 
sifted  through  near-by  parts  of  other  countries,  men 
began  to  flock  to  this  as  to  a  sort  of  Promised  Land, 
and  largely  to  avoid  military  service.  But  this 
movement  was  soon  checked.  The  total  population 
is  now  about  ten  thousand. 

A  cordial-hearted  people  these.  As  in  parts  of 
the  Blue  Ridge,  men  and  women  alike  greet  you, 
whether  in  village  street  or  mountain  path.  Peas- 
ants though  they  are,  they  have  a  love  for  flowers, 
and  their  windows  are  filled  with  them.  Meet  a 
peasant  woman  on  the  road  and  pause  to  admire  the 
rare  and  beautiful  blossoms  with  which  her  hands 
are  filled,  and  she  will  urge  them  all  upon  you — 
for  you  are  a  stranger  in  the  land! — and  will  dislike 
to  accept  any  silver  in  exchange.  "No!  No!" 
she  will  say,  with  a  smile  and  a  shake  of  the  head. 

But  though  all  wish  to  please  you,  there  is  never 
any  humbleness,  never  subservience.  And  the  little 
kindergarten  girls,  scarcely  more  than  able  to  walk, 
and  quite  unable  to  discriminate  between  the  Prince, 
the  cure,  and  the  American,  will  shyly  touch  your 
hand  or  even  softly  kiss  it. 

Spring  comes  early  in  Liechtenstein.  The  valley 
is  sheltered,  and  even  in  the  brief  winter  but  little 
snow  falls  below  the  mountain  slopes.  I  have 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

plucked  the  "starflower"  (our  hepatica)  in  Feb- 
ruary, and  the  delicate  "bellflower"  comes  peep- 
ing through  the  snow  like  arbutus,  tempted  by  the 
genial  warmth.  But  with  the  coming  of  the  Feb- 
ruary night  a  dry  and  bitter  chill  creeps  down 
from  the  peaks,  and  you  are  glad  of  the  heat  from 
the  enormous  stove — a  monument  of  stone  blocks, 
five  feet  by  five  in  every  dimension.  And  you  wake 
in  the  night  and  hear  the  wind  go  plunging  through 
the  fir  woods,  and  you  curl  up  under  the  great 
feather  bed  which  Liechtenstein  custom  places 
upon  you,  and  "drink  deep  of  the  pleasures  of 
shelter." 

There  is  a  glory  in  climbing  these  delectable 
mountains  through  the  snow,  following  devious 
trails  through  the  cold  clear  air,  and  your  blood 
tingles  with  the  very  joy  of  living.  Cliffs  plunge 
downward  into  darkling  gorges,  and  the  mist  wavers 
there  fantastically.  Or,  from  a  lofty  height,  you 
look  off  at  the  cool-shadowed  valley,  at  the  color- 
suffused  mountains,  and  a  cloud  folds  itself  silently 
about  you,  and  all  at  once  you  see  the  world  as 
through  a^glass  darkly. 

You  feel  the  solemn  silence  of  the  soundless 
winter  woods;  then  the  stillness  is  for  an  instant 
broken  by  an  almost  imperceptible  sound,  and  you 
catch  a  glimpse  of  some  soft-scurrying  beast.  The 
fox,  the  stag,  the  roebuck  are  still  to  be  found  in 
the  Alps  of  Liechtenstein,  and  in  the  more  inac- 


Liechtenstein:  A  Sovereign  State 

cessible  parts  even  the  chamois  and  the  seldom- 
seen  white  hare. 

When  warmer  weather  comes,  the  country  as- 
sumes a  tender  and  regal  splendor.  The  vine- 
yards, rich  and  luscious  in  their  greenery,  the  or- 
chards, sweeping  up  to  the  very  houses,  the  box- 
bordered  gardens,  the  meadows,  deep  with  grass, 
the  rich-massed  verdure  of  the  mountain-side,  unite 
in  a  soft  sumptuousness  of  glory. 

This  stretch  of  valley,  now  sparsely  settled  and 
simply  built,  has  an  ancient  history,  for  Roman 
towns  and  camps  were  here.  The  square  tower  of 
the  white-perched  Vaduz  castle  is  believed  to  have 
been  built  by  the  Romans,  and  near  where  the 
village  of  Triesen  now  stands  a  Roman  settlement 
was  overwhelmed  by  a  fall  of  rock  from  the  tre- 
mendous overhanging  cliffs.  Somehow  such  things 
make  one  realize  anew  that  this  world  is  very  old 
and  gray. 

But  though  there  is  a  history  of  the  Roman  times 
and  of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  average  Liechtensteiner 
interests  himself  but  little  in  it,  nor  does  he  care  in 
the  least  for  the  old  in  architecture.  The  general 
ambition  is  not  only  to  have  a  new  house,  but  to 
have  a  house  of  new  and  most  modern  design. 
There  are  a  number  of  old  houses  here,  but,  with 
the  exception  of  one  which  was  anciently  a  little 
Benedictine  monastery,  the  trail  of  the  plaster  is 
over  them  all,  and  it  is  hard  to  distinguish,  by  any 

[217] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

outward  and  visible  sign,  the  old  from  the  new,  no 
matter  what  inward  and  spiritual  old-time  grace 
there  may  be.  And  all  this  is  sufficiently  reason- 
able. These  folk  have  never  been  taught  to  cater 
to  the  demand  of  the  tourist  for  the  crumbling, 
the  ruinous,  and  the  leakily  picturesque. 

One  feels  a  curious  sensation  in  this  principality 
undiscovered  by  Americans,  untouched  by  the 
American  invasion,  whether  of  tourist  or  of  trade; 
one  feels  as  he  would  if,  reaching  the  moon,  he 
were  to  find  himself  in  the  full  tide  of  twentieth- 
century  improvement. 

For  in  these  anomalous  country  villages  there  are 
the  telegraph  and  the  telephone.  A  few  of  the 
better  houses  are  heated  by  hot  water.  There  are 
"gummi-schuhe."  In  the  Governor's  office  there 
is  a  typewriter.  There  is  electricity.  The  Vaduz 
streets  are  electric-lighted  at  night,  and  every  house 
in  the  town,  even  the  poorest,  is  supplied.  And 
why  not!  For  a  single  electric  light  costs  for  a  year, 
in  this  country  of  unlimited  water-power,  only 
five  crowns— less  than  a  dollar  and  a  quarter. 
There  are  two  large  "spinnereien"  (spinneries), 
with  several  hundred  operatives. 

Modernity  has  almost  destroyed  the  peasant 
dress,  though  still  there  are  suggestions  of  it  in  the 
short,  full-waisted  skirts,  the  knitted  stockings, 
the  fringed  silk  aprons,  brightly  barred,  and  in  the 
soft  green  hats  and  jackets  of  the  men.  At  a  funeral 

[218] 


Liechtenstein:  A  Sovereign  State 

the  body  is  still  carried  through  the  street  by  the 
bearers,  with  the  village  population  straggling  de- 
viously behind,  with  candles  flaming  faintly  in  the 
sunlight.  Ox-teams  are  a  familiar  sight.  As  sunset 
approaches,  the  cattle,  all  of  black-touched  dun, 
come  saunteringly  along  the  main  street,  stopping 
at  the  public  fountains  for  leisurely  and  thoughtful 
drink,  and  placidly  shouldering  aside  the  children 
who  may  be  puffing  propulsive  breath  at  diminu- 
tive boats.  Each  Saturday  night  the  house  and 
door-yards  are  swept  and  garnished.  At  Sunday 
breakfast  every  Liechtensteiner  eats  a  sweetened 
coffee-cake.  At  the  close  of  service  the  men  gather 
in  front  of  the  church,  and  a  wall-perched  official 
reads  notices  of  official  action  and  of  private  sale. 

Curiously  sufficient  unto  itself  is  little  Liechten- 
stein. Small  though  it  is,  its  people  could  com- 
fortably exist  if  cut  off  completely  from  the  outside 
world.  The  dweller  in  this  tiny  principality  has 
bread  and  cheese  and  milk,  "honey  of  the  moun- 
tain," "wine  of  Vaduz,"  wood  for  his  fire,  material 
for  his  clothes.  "Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose 
fields  with  bread,  whose  flocks  supply  him  with 
attire";  and  even,  continuing,  "whose  trees  in 
summer  yield  him  shade,  in  winter,  fire." 

German  is  the  tongue  that  is  spoken  here,  but 
the  people  do  not  give  the  impression  of  having 
come  of  either  Swiss  or  German  stock.  Their  Ger- 
man is  peculiarly  soft,  and  they  still  retain  some 

[219] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

words  of  Romance  origin.  One  is  tempted  to  ascribe 
to  Southern  influence  the  masculine  wearing  of  ear- 
rings— a  curious  eccentricity  for  such  simple  and 
manly  men.  A  great  row  of  Lombardy  poplars, 
stretching  in  highly  pictorial  fashion  along  the 
Rhine,  is  at  least  an  indication  of  Italian  influence 
of  another  kind. 

Bravely  situated  is  the  old  castle  beetling  above 
the  town.  Masses  of  fir  and  pine  and  beech  rise 
beyond  it,  and  many  of  the  trees  are  of  great  girth 
and  height. 

An  old  sun-dial  dominates  the  court,  with  a 
faded  Time  scything  away  the  centuries.  Thick- 
rooted  ivy  clings  to  the  ancient  walls,  and  dungeons 
and  subterranean  passages  tell  of  the  grimness  of 
the  deeds  of  the  past.  There  are  walls  of  enormous 
thickness;  but  once,  four  hundred  years  ago,  the 
Swiss — hereditary  foes — swarmed  irresistibly  over 
them,  and  after  burning  and  destroying,  carried 
away  the  baron  into  captivity  at  Lucerne.  Much 
of  the  interior  is  still  ruinous,  but  one  sees  the  line 
of  the  great  hall  of  the  castle,  with  window-seats 
from  which  high-born  ladies  looked  off  over  plain 
and  rock  and  river.  And  in  one  of  the  arched 
window-embrasures,  from  which  the  floor  has  long 
since  fallen  away,  are  centuries-old  frescos,  in 
charming  Renaissance  designs,  bringing  back  the 
bright  and  happy  side  of  that  ancient  life. 

A  sweet  and  noble  view  from  this  old  pile,  for  the 

[220] 


THE  DELECTABLE  VALLEY  OF  LIECHTENSTEIN 


:  s  of  Old 

Ing  of 

and 
'Oplars, 

.ad  beech 

ial  don  .vith  a 

^nturies.  Th 

to  the  and  dungeons 

of 
vails  of  enorn; 

•es — sv, 

.  :en  ^i- 

ith  window-seats 

n  ladle  -:I  off  over  plain 

>f   the   arched 

'oor  has  long 

1    frescos,    in 

•ing  back  the 

life. 

t  pile,  for  the 


Liechtenstein:  A  Sovereign  State 

crenelated  heights  across  the  valley  are  superb,  and 
the  silver-flashing  Rhine  lies  fair  and  peaceful — a 
noble  view,  of  peaks  sun-smitten  or  dimmed  by 
cloud  or  mist,  of  rich-hued  distances,  of  ancient 
castles  niched  in  allurement  or  standing  upon 
austere  cliffs,  of  houses  and  orchards,  of  cattle  and 
of  smiling  fields. 

There  is  a  charming  enclosed  old  garden  on  the 
very  edge  of  the  cliff,  where  rosemary  and  box  once 
grew,  and  glorious  roses,  yellow  and  red  and  white, 
and  where  stately  ladies,  silk-clad,  stately  walked. 
Not  open  to  sight  or  to  attack  that  garden,  for  at 
either  end  stood  a  little  tower,  round  and  domed, 
where  guards  stood  watch.  Walled  about  and  cur- 
tailed was  the  life  of  the  fine  ladies  of  those  bygone 
days,  even  as  this  garden  was  walled,  and  they  must 
often  have  envied  the  freedom  of  the  village  maids 
whom  they  could  watch,  at  work  or  at  play,  in  the 
plain  below. 

An  old  bell  still  hangs  in  a  tower,  overlooking 
the  perpendicular  cliff,  and  one  cannot  but  think  of 
how  it  clangored  its  alarm  when  men-at-arms  were 
seen  approaching  along  the  river  or  when  the  war- 
like Swiss  descended  from  their  defiles. 

A  diligence  runs  the  length  of  Liechtenstein,  and 
I  especially  remember  a  ride  in  it  one  day  with  an 
aged  priest  whose  very  look  seemed  a  benediction. 
I  remember  how  eager  he  was  to  explain  his  country 
to  me,  a  stranger,  and  how  proud  he  was  of  it. 

[221] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

People  who  live  in  large  and  powerful  countries 
are  too  apt  to  think  that  those  who  live  in  small 
and  weak  ones  cannot  have  national  pride.  Why, 
this  priest  was  full  of  pride! — a  charming,  quiet, 
altogether  likable  pride. 

And  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  silver  coin  of 
Liechtenstein,  bearing  the  Prince's  head  and  his 
coat-of-arms,  and  almost  shyly,  but  with  a  certain 
formality,  presented  it  to  me.  "To  remember 
Liechtenstein,"  he  said.  It  was  like  my  two  friends 
of  the  diligence  in  the  Cotentin.  And  he  was  pleased 
when  I  gave  him,  "to  remember  an  American,"  a 
silver  coin  in  exchange. 

There  are  some  half-dozen  "castled  ruins  within  the 
confines  of  Liechtenstein,  and  some  half-dozen  other 
ruined  piles  frown  back  from  the  Swiss  side  of  the 
river — ghosts  of  the  passions  of  the  past.  One,  on 
the  Liechtenstein  side,  looms  above  the  village  of 
Balzers,  and  bears  in  the  neighborhood  the  fame  of 
never  having  been  captured,  although  it  has  stood 
for  a  thousand  years.  It  stands  on  the  summit  of 
a  rocky  mass,  rising  steeply  on  every  side  out  of  the 
level  land.  Never  was  a  grimmer  or  dourer  pile;  for 
so  narrowly  did  it  escape  capture  in  1499,  when  the 
Swiss  scarred  it  with  a  lumbering  piece  of  artillery, 
that  the  baron  built  up  all  the  windows  and  open- 
ings, reducing  them  to  the  narrowest  of  slits. 

The  "Watch  on  the  Rhine"  in  the  centuries  past 
meant  something  very  different  from  the  present 

[222] 


Liechtenstein:  A  Sovereign  State 

usage  of  the  phrase.  For  every  merchant  with 
laden  pack-horses,  every  owner  of  a  cargo  going 
toward  the  Lake  of  Constance  and  thence  toward 
the  cities  of  Germany,  was  likely  to  have  to  pay 
toll  to  one  or  another,  or  to  many,  of  the  castle 
barons,  predecessors  of  the  customs-gatherers  of  to- 
day, and  one  is  moved  to  admiration  for  the  business 
sense  of  those  hard-headed  men,  who  went  about 
their  affairs  in  pot-hats  of  steel  and  jackets  and 
trousers  of  iron,  and  with  swords  in  their  hands 
instead  of  umbrellas.  For  they  refrained  from 
taking,  as  a  rule,  more  than  should  serve  as  a  stimu- 
lating reminder,  and  so  managed  the  affair  as  to 
seem  to  be  giving  protection,  for  a  small  propor- 
tional fee,  instead  of  taking  top  much  and  thus  put- 
ting an  end  to  traffic  and  to  the  appearance  of  the 
golden  eggs.  It  need  not  be  minced  that  living  upon 
their  neighbors  was  the  general  law  of  life  in  those 
olden  times. 

Shrines  are  placed  at  frequent  intervals  through- 
out the  villages  and  along  the  roads;  and  on  a  cliff 
not  far  from  Vaduz  castle  is  a  black  and  weather- 
beaten  cross,  bearing  a  simple  little  inscription, 
begging  the  passer-by  to  pause  for  a  moment  to  offer 
a  prayer  for  a  "jungling" — a  young  man — who  long 
since  fell  there  and  was  killed.  Well,  thus  his  name 
is  kept  in  lengthening  remembrance,  and  with  him 
has  been  satisfied  that  desire,  felt  by  everybody,  to 
be  kept  in  mind,  long  and  honorably,  after  death, 

[223] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

for  he  fell  suddenly  into  a  degree  of  remembrance 
toward  which  most  men  climb  in  vain. 

Although  Vaduz  is  one  of  the  capitals  of  Europe, 
there  is  little  of  life  on  the  streets  after  the  coming  of 
nightfall.  Here  and  there  a  dog  barks.  Here  and 
there  a  man  goes  hurryingly  homeward.  Here  and 
there  shine  lights  from  cottage  windows.  The  street 
lights  of  electricity  seem  only  a  whimsical  jest. 

It  is  Lilliput  ruled  by  its  Gulliver.  And  although, 
on  account  of  the  fiscal  arrangement,  Austrian  coins 
and  stamps  are  generally  used,  the  Prince's  personal 
pride  in  his  possession,  has  led  him  to  have  his  own 
stamps  and  coins  as  well,  bearing  his  name  and  face 
and  title. 

And  there  is  another  touch  to  add  to  the  unreality 
of  it  all.  Coming  to  Vaduz  only  at  infrequent  in- 
tervals, and  busied  as  he  is  at  his  private  estates  or 
at  Vienna — for,  besides  being  Sovereign  Prince  of 
Liechtenstein,  he  bears  an  Austrian  title,  by  virtue 
of  which  he  is  a  member  of  the  Austrian  House  of 
Lords — he  can  at  any  time  call  up  his  principality 
by  long-distance  telephone!  Never  was  such  a 
principality,  even  in  the  most  capricious  imagination. 

And  that  one-time  army!  Following  the  war 
with  Prussia,  the  unscarred  veterans  were  not  per- 
mitted to  bear  their  arms  and  uniforms  home,  to 
be  handed  down  in  glory  to  their  descendants.  The 
trappings  and  equipment  were  taken  up  by  the 
government,  and  are  in  a  lofty  room  of  the  Vaduz 

[224] 


Liechtenstein:  A  Sovereign  State 

castle,  adjoining  the  Roman  tower — mementos  of 
the  slightest  military  power  in  juxtaposition  to  a 
ruin  of  the  greatest.  There  hangs  the  banner  of 
Liechtenstein,  in  its  colors  of  red  and  blue.  There, 
stiffly  arranged  in  rows,  are  the  eighty  helmets  of 
leather,  brass-embossed.  There  are  the  eighty 
muskets.  There  are  the  sword  of  the  captain  and 
the  trumpeter's  brass  horn. 

One  day  I  crossed  over  into  Switzerland,  and  went 
along  the  Rhine,  and  up  steep  heights  to  ruined 
castles — perched  high  as  if  to  insure  getting  enemies 
out  of  breath  before  arriving  at  the  castle  walls! — 
and  past  little  mountain-villages  and  isolated  homes. 
Almost  every  home,  so  I  found,  was  a  "stickerei";  a 
house  with  one  or  several  embroidery  frames,  for  the 
embroidering  of  fine  linen;  for  this  canton,  Appenzell, 
and  the  neighboring  canton  of  St.  Gall  are  the  center 
of  the  embroidery  industry  of  Switzerland. 

I  went  into  several  "stickereis,"  for  they  made 
the  rare  and  unexpected  visitor  very  welcome. 
And  it  is  a  most  interesting  feature,  that  it  is  not 
necessary  for  these  embroiderers  to  be  crowded 
into  tight-built  towns,  but  that  they  live,  so  many 
of  them,  in  their  own  homes,  and  attend  to  their 
farms  and  herds;  and  I  was  particularly  impressed 
with  one  mountain  home,  high  up  in  a  lonely  valley 
far  from  a  railroad  or  village,  and  even  far  from 
any  other  house  except  a  centuries'  old  castle  that 
frowned  down  from  a  neighboring  height. 

[225] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

In  this  house  a  mountain  farmer-grazier-embroid- 
erer— I  really  do  not  know  what  he  would  consider 
the  order  of  importance — sat  in  front  of  his  frame, 
which  had  ten  handkerchiefs,  stretched  by  basting, 
upon  it.  Into  the  handkerchief  directly  in  front 
of  him  he  put  a  stitch  with  a  needle  attached  to  the 
machine;  then  he  pushed  a  treadle,  and  at  once  a 
similar  stitch  was  made  in  all  the  handkerchiefs. 
I  don't  pretend  to  understand  just  how  it  was  done, 
but  that  is  what  the  very  interesting  process,  half 
hand-work  and  half  machine-work,  looked  like. 

The  handkerchiefs,  so  the  man  told  me,  came 
from  Belfast  to  be  embroidered  in  Appenzell,  and 
after  being  embroidered  were  to  go  back  to  Ireland 
to  be  bleached  and  hemstitched,  and  the  particular 
order  upon  which  he  was  working  was  destined  in 
the  end  for  Chicago!  It  seemed  incredible,  that 
shipments  could  thus  be  made  back  and  forth 
on  the  Continent  for  work  in  preparation  for  Amer- 
ica, especially  considering  that  these  particular 
handkerchiefs  were  of  a  kind  which  would  sell  in 
the  United  States  for  perhaps  fifty  or  seventy-five 
cents  apiece. 

This  Appenzell  "stickerei"  man  had  never  before 
seen  an  American,  and  he  knew  of  but  four  Ameri- 
can names;  he  knew  of  New  York  and  Chicago;  he 
knew  Marshalfield  (pronounced  as  one  word)  and 
Zhonvannamakker ! 

It  was  dark  when  I  crossed  a  long  bridge  over 

F226] 


Liechtenstein:  A  Sovereign  State 

the  Rhine  and  thus  reentered  Liechtenstein.  In  the 
middle  of  the  bridge,  the  boundary  line,  was  a  great 
gate  of  heavy  wooden  beams,  amply  sufficient  for 
the  closing  of  the  way,  and  on  either  side  of  this 
gate,  with  its  great  lock  and  enormous  bolts,  was 
stationed  a  customs'  guard.  The  men  were  idly 
chatting  with  each  other  across  the  boundary  in 
friendly  fraternization,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  great 
gate  was  but  a  simulacrum  of  safeguard,  that  it  was 
an  obsolete  survival  from  a  hostile  past.  Yet  as  I 
paused  on  the  Liechtenstein  side  of  the  barrier,  one 
of  the  customs'  guards  said  to  me,  naively  echoing 
a  long-inherited,  ancient  dread  of  mountaineers: 
"We  lock  the  gate  at  midnight.  There  are  bad 
men  in  Switzerland,  and  we  keep  the  key  on  the 
Liechtenstein  side!" 


XV.    THE  PASSES  OF  THE  ALPS  IN  SNOW 

AND  ICE 

REGION  that  is  frequently 
visited  may  through  changes 
of  season  become  a  region  un- 
visited;  a  region  so  changed, 
\so  metamorphosed,  so  differ- 
ent, as  to  be  a  region  unrecog- 
nizable by  those  who  have 
known  it  only  under  its  usu- 
ally seen  aspect.  And  in  par- 
ticular I  have  in  mind  the 
passes  of  the  Alps,  that  in 
summer  time  are,  like  that  of 
the  St.  Gotthard,  so  crowded 
that  a  tourist  with  a  camera 

is  on  every  rock,  or  like  that  of  the  Dolomites, 
thronged  with  eager  visitors,  but  which  in  winter 
are  stretches  of  cold  and  solitary  loneliness.  People 
pass  through  the  Alps  in  Switzerland  by  train; 
some  gather  at  the  few  winter  resorts  open  mainly 
for  enthusiasts  of  toboggan  or  ski;  and,  of  course,  the 
natives  are  there;  but  the  great  stretches  of  pic- 
turesque Switzerland  are  in  winter  a  region  un- 
visited  by  strangers  and  unknown. 

I    remember    deciding,    on    leaving   Lucerne   one 
winter  day,  to  go  up  above  the  St.  Gotthard;  up  the 

[228] 


The  Passes  of  the  Alps  in  Snow  and  Ice 

ancient  road  above  the  railroad  tunnel;  and,  like 
most  of  the  delightful  unusual  things,  I  found  it  a 
project  easy  to  carry  out. 

It  was  a  bright,  cold  morning,  and  after  a  fascina- 
ting railroad  ride  of  almost  four  hours,  through  a 
Switzerland  all  snow  and  ice,  I  reached  Goschenen, 
fifty-five  miles  away,  at  the  entrance  of  the  St. 
Gotthard  tunnel.  There  is  a  wonderfully  fast  train, 
what  we  should  call  an  "extra  fare"  train,  that 
connects  Lucerne  with  Italy  at  the  rate  of  thirty 
miles  an  hour! — they  are  so  proud  of  it  that  they  call 
it  the  Blitzzug:  lightning-train! — but  all  the  other 
trains  are  of  the  usual  leisurely  European  type.  And, 
really,  one  ought  not  to  rush  along  at  thirty  miles 
an  hour  through  a  region  where  every  moment 
there  is  something  charming  or  wonderful  to  see. 

At  Goschenen,  after  an  excellent  luncheon — in 
Europe  one  can  always  get  excellent  eating  even 
where  travelers  are  not  looked  for — I  engaged  a 
man  with  a  sledge;  a  sledge  low-set,  almost  upon  the 
ground,  with  steel-shod  runners  and  boat-shaped 
basket  of  splints,  something  like  hickory,  made  as 
old-fashioned  splint-bottom  chair-seats  were  made. 

The  driver  gave  me  several  rugs  of  goat-skin,  for 
warmth;  it  occurs  to  me,  now,  that  likely  enough 
they  were  chamois-skin,  but  I  have  not  had  close 
acquaintance  with  the  chamois,  except  with  the 
bits  of  yellow  leather  familiar  to  all  of  us  at  home, 
and  the  skins  certainly  did  not  resemble  those, 

[229] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

and  so  I  thought  of  them  merely  as  goat  or  sheep. 
And  I  was  glad  to  have  them,  for  we  were  not  mak- 
ing an  early  start  and  I  knew  that  with  sunset 
would  come  greater  cold. 

The  driver  himself  chose  to  sit  right  out  upon  the 
shafts;  close  against  the  basket  but  unprotected 
from  the  wind. 

"But  you  will  be  cold!" 

"No!"  He  shook  his  head  and  smiled.  "I  al- 
ways ride  this  way.  I  shall  be  warm." 

He  wore  a  short  jacket  and  no  gloves,  but  had 
home-knitted  wristlets — I  don't  know  what  else 
to  call  them — that  went  far  above  the  elbow,  and 
home-knitted  leggings  that  reached  far  above  the 
knees  and  were  worn  on  the  outside. 

There  was  no  bell  on  his  horse.  "It  might  bring 
down  an  avalanche,"  he  said,  simply;  so  fearful  of 
jarring  the  air  are  the  natives  in  these  mountains. 

It  was  a  wonderful  drive,  up  a  road  that  is  the 
ultimate  achievement  of  twistiness,  between  preci- 
pices that  tower  perpendicularly,  and  up  the  course 
of  a  wild  and  rushing  stream.  The  Devil's  Bridge 
was  reached,  and  at  this  part  the  road  reached  the 
extreme  of  rock-walled  savagery.  There  was  con- 
siderable fighting  right  here,  in  the  time  of  the 
French  Revolution,  between  the  French  on  the  one 
side  and  the  Austrians  and  Russians  on  the  other, 
and  the  road  is  always  guarded  and  has  been  strongly 
fortified,  and  solitary  sentinels  are  now  and  then 

[230] 


The  Passes  of  the  Alps  in  Snow  and  Ice 

caught  sight  of,  standing  or  pacing  isolatedly,  in 
spots  that  seem  startlingly  inaccessible.  At  one 
place  the  rock  is  pierced  by  a  long  tunnel,  and  this 
has  in  its  heart  a  mighty  steel  gate,  ready  to  be 
closed  and  locked  and  held  against  any  possible  force! 

The  fear  of  avalanches  is  not  an  idle  one,  for  the 
danger  is  very  real  and  ever-present.  At  one  place 
a  long  stone  shed  is  built  projective  across  the  road 
for  avalanche  protection,  and  at  other  points  the 
driver  stops  and  watches  and  listens  warily.  My 
driver  had  a  second  horse  which  followed  us,  trotting 
alone  and  unguided,  drawing  a  sledge  loaded  with 
provisions  for  a  garrison.  It  usually  lagged  some 
score  of  yards,  or  even  more,  behind,  as  if  to  accent 
its  independence,  but  at  one  spot  it  came  hurry- 
ing up  and  overtook  us,  and  actually  laid  its  head 
across  my  shoulder  as  it  trotted  in  pace  with  our 
horse. 

"He  is  frightened,"  said  the  driver;  "he  comes 
up  for  the  protection  of  man!  A  year  ago,  I  was 
driving  him  here,  and  an  avalanche  caught  us — it 
came  rushing  from  far,  far  above,  there,  and  struck 
us  and  swept  us  from  the  road  and  carried  us  down." 
And  he  pointed  to  a  spot  far  down  at  the  foot  of  the 
terrible  rocks,  and  then  up  to  a  grim  height  where  a 
steep  stretch  of  savage  smoothness  showed  where 
the  avalanche  had  scraped  a  passage  clear.  "We 
went  down,  down,  down!  And  there  was  a  great 
roaring  and  a  turmoil — I  knew  nothing  except  that 

[231] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

I  was  held  and  crushed  and  that  there  was  a  great 
falling.  And  then  came  quiet.  And  I  was  almost 
smothered,  but  I  tried  to  get  out.  I  struggled  and 
panted  and  tore  at  the  snow.  And  I  got  out.  And 
the  horse  was  struggling,  and  I  helped  him  out. 
And  it  was  strange,  but  he  was  not  hurt.  But  he 
was  so  frightened,  he,  that  ever  at  this  point  in  the 
road  he  fears.  You  have  seen!  And  for  me,  one 
cheek  was  crushed  in  and  forever  I  shall  have  this 
great  scar." 

We  had  been  steadily  mounting,  up  the  terrific 
road,  and  the  early  winter  darkness  was  threatening 
to  fall  when  we  came  out  upon  the  summit  of  the 
pass,  into  a  high  valley  where,  in  the  four-months' 
summer,  grass  grows  and  scanty  grain,  but  where 
now  was  a  wilderness  of  snow  and  ice,  stretching 
across  the  levels  and  up  the  mountain-sides.  I 
went  through  little  Andermatt  and  on  to  tiny  Hos- 
penthal,  and,  there  being  no  inn  open  there,  the 
half  dozen  or  so  being  all  closed  and  deserted  for 
the  winter,  drove  back  to  Andermatt  and  put  up 
at  the  modest  Trois  Rois,  all  the  others  being  closed 
like  those  of  Hospenthal. 

I  had  become  so  snug  among  the  goat  (or  chamois) 
skins  that  I  had  not  realized  that  it  was  particu- 
larly cold,  but  when  I  got  out  of  the  sledge  at  the 
Three  Kings — these  monarchs,  meaning  the  Three 
Wise  Men  of  the  East,  popularly  naming  numerous 
inns  in  various  mountain  places! — I  found  that  I 

[232] 


The  Passes  of  the  Alps  in  Snow  and  Ice 

had  become  almost  too  stiff  to  walk  and  that  there 
was  a  hungry,  bitter,  biting  fierceness  of  cold,  and 
I  realized  now,  too,  that  the  dazzle  of  the  sun  upon 
the  snow  had  given  me  a  painful  burning  of  the 
face  and  eyes.  But  there  was  such  a  splendid 
Alpine  glow,  such  a  superb  glory  of  rosy  color,  as 
made  the  cold  and  its  effects  forgotten. 

The  main  room  of  the  inn  was  warm,  and  there  was 
pleasant  company  there.  There  had  been  no  traveler 
or  tourist,  of  any  nationality,  for  several  months,  but 
several  officers  of  the  near-by  garrison  had  come  in, 
and  it  was  a  friendly  and  cheerful  evening  that  was 
spent  with  them. 

In  all  it  was  intensely  fascinating.  I  had  really 
achieved  the  impossible  and  found  an  unvisited 
Switzerland ! 

It  has  been  a  pleasure,  in  other  seasons,  to  repeat 
the  experience  elsewhere,  and  in  two  different 
winters  I  have  gone  through  the  Dolomites — this  not 
being  a  religious  sect,  as  the  name  might  indicate, 
but  a  clump  of  particularly  picturesque  mountains  of 
the  Eastern  Alps! — and  have  there  had  even  more 
interesting  adventures  than  in  the  St.  Gotthard. 
One  of  the  times  I  went  into  Italy  from  Vienna,  by 
way  of  Toblach  and  the  Dolomites — a  long,  slow 
journey,  and  rather  tiresome,  as  far  as  Toblach — 
and  the  other  time  from  Innsbruck,  and  also  by 
way  of  Toblach. 

Innsbruck  is  itself  a  delightful  city,  and  the  inn 

[233] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

where  I  stayed,  which  stands  beside  an  old  triumphal 
arch,  is  an  edifice  so  fascinatingly  ancient  that  it 
was  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight,  for  I  went  in  as 
soon  as  I  caught  sight  of  it,  although  I  had  chosen, 
from  the  long  list  of  hotels,  another  name. 

I  was  a  little  disappointed,  and  a  little  afraid  of 
poor  service,  when  I  found  the  dining-room,  through 
which  the  proprietor  led  me,  to  have  scrubbed 
and  bare-top  tables,  with  only  some  soldiers  and  blue- 
bloused  carters  there,  sitting  on  rough  benches. 
"The  glory  of  this  picturesque  old  place,"  I  said 
to  myself,  "has  evidently  departed!" 

But  in  a  moment  I  was  conducted  through  a 
large  room  filled  with  substantial-looking  diners 
seated  at  long  tables  covered  with  coarse  table- 
cloths and  showing  an  abundance  of  food  finer  than 
in  the  other  room.  "This  is  not  really  bad,  after 
all,"  I  said  to  myself,  "and  everything  in  this 
picturesque  old  place  is  at  least  clean." 

And  then,  to  my  complete  surprise,  I  was  shown 
into  a  third  dining  room,  where  were  ladies,  and 
brilliantly  uniformed  officers,  and  where  a  good 
orchestra  made  music,  and  where,  as  I  was  to  learn, 
the  food  was  superlatively  delicious. 

The  charges,  too,  were  so  low,  as  I  stayed  for  a 
week  and  was  thus  out  of  the  transient  class,  that 
I  had  really  better  not  say  what  they  were!  And 
my  room  had  a  fascinating  old  bay  window,  from 
which  I  could  look  up  and  down  the  main  street  and 

[234] 


The  Passes  of  the  Alps  in  Snow  and  Ice 

almost  fancy  that  I  could  touch  the  abruptly  rising 
mountains  that  so  closely  hem  the  city  in. 

From  Innsbruck  to  Toblach  is  ninety  miles,  and 
this  means  a  journey  of  from  four  to  five  hours, 
through  superb  mountains. 

At  Toblach  the  train  is  left,  for  the  Dolomites  are 
reached  only  by  carriage  road;  at  least,  that  is  the 
usual  expression  for  it,  though  it  would  scarcely  be 
called  a  carriage  road  in  winter  time,  with  deep 
snow  packed  underneath  the  sledge — for  by  sledge 
is  the  winter  way — and  snow  banks  rising  continu- 
ously, several  feet  above  the  level  of  the  packed 
snow  of  the  road.  It  is  not  only  a  wonderfully  roman- 
tic experience  to  sledge  through  the  deserted  Dolo- 
mites in  winter  time,  but  there  is  no  more  fascina- 
ting way  of  entering  Italy  for  the  early  spring.  For 
this  reason  late  winter  is  the  preferable  time;  and 
the  contrast  between  the  cold  and  the  snow  of  the 
mountains  and  the  yellow  primroses  and  the  lilies 
of  the  plains  of  Lombardy  and  Venice  can  never 
be  forgotten. 


XVI.    THROUGH  THE   DOLOMITES   IN 
WINTER 


T  was  not  for  the  sake  of  reach- 
ing Italy  through  snow  and  ice 
that  I  sledged  through  the  Dolo- 
mites in  winter,  though  that 
would  be  a  powerful  stimulus; 
it  was  even  more  for  the  sake 
of  seeing  the  region  when  there 
were  only  stretches  of  cold  and 
solitary  loneliness.  In  the 
warmer  months  the  pass  is  so 
thronged  with  motors  and  car- 
riages that  one  can  scarcely 
see  the  mountains  for  the  dust, 
but  in  winter  there  are  only  the 
local  inhabitants,  in  their  isolated  villages,  and 
here  and  there  some  visiting  enthusiast  of  toboggan 
or  ski. 

The  Dolomites  are  part  of  the  Eastern  Alps,  and 
so  far  to  the  eastward  that  they  are  not  under  the 
government  of  Switzerland,  but  are  part  Austrian, 
part  Italian.  They  are  mountains  of  remarkable 
beauty,  mountains  of  peculiarly  jagged  and  pointed 
peaks,  mountains  whose  rocks  are  of  strikingly 

[236] 


Through  the  Dolomites  in  Winter 

varied  colors.  They  are  not  of  the  very  highest  Alps; 
their  loftiest  peak  rises  eleven  thousand  feet;  on  a 
clear  day  they  can  be  seen  from  distant  Venice, 
rising  fine  and  clear  on  the  horizon. 

I  entered  the  Dolomites  from  the  Austrian  town 
of  Toblach,  which  is  easily  reached  from  either 
Innsbruck  or  Vienna.  It  was  the  second  year  in 
which  I  had  gone  there  in  winter,  and  on  both  occa- 
sions the  cold  at  Toblach  was  intense,  and  the  snow 
there,  and  for  miles  southward,  was  from  five  to 
seven  feet  in  depth  on  the  level  and  vastly  deeper 
in  drift-filled  hollows. 

I  started  from  Toblach  at  half-past  seven  in  the 
morning,  and,  translated  into  terms  of  Fahrenheit, 
it  was  two  degrees  below  zero,  but  fortunately 
there  was  no  wind.  "Drink  hot  milk;  never  brandy; 
brandy  makes  a  man  hot  first,  but  then  cold,"  was 
the  friendly  advice  of  the  few  bystanders  who  had 
gathered  to  see  the  sledge  start  off  through  the  dim 
half-light  into  the  snowy  distance. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  was  in  the  heart  of  a  great 
loneliness.  Toblach  itself  is  four  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea,  and  on  either  side  of  the  valley,  through 
which  the  road  goes  twistingly,  mountains  rise  for 
thousands  of  feet  higher,  incredibly  sheer  and  fan- 
tastic. The  dry,  crisp,  powdery  snow  was  of  spot- 
less white.  The  forests  of  fir  were  deep  and  somber. 
Shadows  in  the  snow  were  of  a  blue  I  have  seen 
nowhere  else  save  in  the  water  of  the  Grotto  of  Capri. 

[237] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

Here  and  there  were  footprints  of  wild  four-footed 
haunters  of  these  silences,  and  spots  fluffed  by  the 
wings  of  some  bird. 

There  was  a  dim  and  shadowy  dawn,  but  al- 
though the  light  would  steadily  become  brighter  and 
stronger  it  would  be  three  hours  before  the  sun 
itself  could  be  seen  from  this  deep-set  valley,  though 
long  before  that  the  high-hemming  heights  would 
be  shimmering  gloriously. 

And  even  though  there  was  deep  snow,  many  a 
scarred  and  wrinkled  precipice  was  bare,  and  showed 
its  rich  coloring  of  jet  black,  of  silver,  of  white,  of 
ochre  and  copper,  of  bright  yellow,  of  purple,  of  red. 

The  sledge  was  so  low  as  almost  to  give  the  im- 
pression of  sitting  on  a  board.  The  tails  of  the 
horses  seemed  high  above!  In  an  American  sleigh 
the  seat  is  like  a  chair,  but  on  a  Dolomitian  sledge 
your  feet  must  go  out  almost  straight. 

A  little  stream  was  crossed,  and  I  noticed  that  in 
spite  of  the  cold  it  was  not  frozen.  "No,"  said  the 
driver,  "that  never  freezes.  It  is  warmer  in  winter 
than  in  summer.  Soon  you  will  come  to  where  it 
is  smoking!"  And  soon,  indeed,  it  was  actually 
sending  up  a  cloud  of  steam  beside  the  road. 

It  is  a  region  of  avalanches;  there  is  terror  here 
as  well  as  beauty.  I  passed  a  spot  where,  only  two 
days  before,  a  tremendous  avalanche  had  come 
overwhelmingly  down  from  the  jagged  heights, 
sweeping  bare  a  wide  swath  in  its  descent.  The 

[238] 


Through  the  Dolomites  in  Winter 

mass  of  debris  lay  in  the  bed  of  the  valley,  but  on 
the  lower  slopes  of  the  opposite  side  from  that  of 
the  avalanche  great  trees  had  been  thrown  down 
by  the  score,  though  it  was  clear  that  the  avalanche 
had  not  touched  them.  There  seemed  no  reason 
for  it,  and  I  looked  to  the  driver  for  an  explanation. 

"  It  was  not  the  avalanche  but  the  wind  from  it," 
said  he;  "the  wind  sent  upward  on  this  side  as  the 
avalanche  struck  the  bottom.  It  was  as  the  air  in  a 
gun,"  he  added,  explanatorily. 

"  Some  avalanches,  they  come  slow,  slow,"  he  con- 
tinued, out  of  the  depths  of  his  avalanche  experi- 
ences, "  and  some,  like  this,  come  fast,  like  the  wind. 
And  it  is  toward  the  end  of  February  and  in  the  early 
days  of  March  that  avalanches  most  commonly 


come." 


Many  of  the  trees  had  been  thrown  right  across 
the  road,  which  was  a  little  above  the  bottom  of  the 
valley  on  the  side  away  from  the  avalanche,  and  a 
party  of  soldiers  had  chopped  the  way  clear;  for 
this  is  a  military  road,  and  must  not  at  any  time  be 
impassable. 

From  the  cliffs  hang  masses  of  huge  icicles,  which 
from  time  to  time  come  crashingly  down;  it  is  usually 
when  exposed  to  the  afternoon  sun  that  the  icicles 
fall,  and  the  special  danger  time  is  from  two  to  four 
o'clock. 

It  is  an  ancient  road,  this;  it  was  for  ages  a  great 
highway  of  commerce,  and  remained  so  until  the 

[239] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

coming  of  railways  took  traffic  away  from  this 
unrailroaded  region.  In  the  past  what  bales  of  silk, 
what  spices  and  gems,  what  merchandise  of  every 
sort  passed  over  this  Strada  d'Allemagna;  what 
travelers  and  merchants,  what  armies!  And  per- 
haps, as  showing  the  indefinable  interest  that  at- 
taches to  merchandise  from  distant  and  unknown 
regions,  I  may  mention  that  at  a  solitary  gast-haus 
I  saw  a  box  labeled  with  the  name  of  a  Michigan 
fly-paper! 

It  was  fascinating,  this  road  that  was  a  long 
channel  sunk  in  the  deep  snow.  There  was  ex- 
hilaration in  the  air.  The  mountains  took  on  a  sump- 
tuous splendor  in  the  mild  glitter  of  sunlight.  "  Drink 
deep  of  the  pleasures  of  shelter"?  Yes!  But  it  is 
fortunate  that  we  may  also  drink  deep  of  the  out- 
door pleasures  of  such  a  mountain  road  and  such  a 
day. 

Ceasing  to  follow  the  valley,  I  found  the  road 
mounting  and  twisting  and  leading  beside  great 
chasms,  and  offering  superbly  far-sweeping  views. 
If  a  high  wind  had  risen  or  if  snow  had  begun  to 
fall — and  it  sometimes  covers,  they  will  tell  you, 
three  feet  in  an  hour — it  would  have  been  wise  to 
stay  for  a  while  at  one  of  the  isolated  inns  that  are 
open  all  the  year  for  the  accommodation  of  soldiers, 
mail  carriers,  men  of  the  countryside  villages. 
But  the  weather  continued  clear  and  windless,  and 
I  merely  stopped  once  in  a  while,  for  a  few  minutes, 

[240] 


SEEN  FROM  A  SLEDGE  IN  THE  DOLOMITES 


from 


jna ;   what 

And  per- 

hat  at- 

aiid  unknown 

i  ary  gast-haus 

of  a  Michigan 

as   a   long 

e  was  ex- 

ook  on  a  sump- 

Hght.    "Drink 

But  it  is 

*ep  of  the  out- 

d  and  -such  a 

found  the  road 

-   beside   great 

eeping  views. 

had  begun  to 

:11  you, 

wise  to 

inns  that  are 

!on  of  soldiers, 

side    villages. 

windless,  and 

a  few  minutes, 


**  .,» 

Ji-t 


Through  the  Dolomites  in  Winter 

to  warm  myself  and  drink  of  the  bitter  coffee  of  the 
countryside.  It  was  served  as  a  compromise  be- 
tween stronger  drink  and  hot  milk,  and  its  price, 
expressed  in  our  money,  was  about  two  cents  a  cup. 

In  all  such  inns,  in  winter  time,  one  has  the  in- 
teresting experience  of  being  shown,  not  into  the 
rooms  for  tourists,  for  that  part  of  the  house  is  now 
closed,  but  into  the  natural  living-rooms  of  the 
people  themselves.  At  one  side  will  be  a  great 
stone  stove,  set  lengthwise,  and  generally  with  its 
stoking  door  opening  into  the  hallway.  A  wooden 
bench  is  set  close  against  it;  sometimes  a  bed  is 
placed  on  top! 

It  was  seldom  that  I  met  any  other  traveler;  but 
once,  at  a  stretch  of  road  that  was  fittingly  lonely 
and  grim  and  stern,  I  passed  a  prisoner,  marched 
through  the  beaten-down  snow  of  the  road  between 
two  berifled  and  behelmeted  soldiers.  He  was 
charged  with  theft,  they  told  me;  and  he  stood  mis- 
erably shuffling  and  stamping,  as  they  stopped  to 
talk  with  me — a  winter  visitor  being  a  longed-for 
break  in  monotony — and  he  was  gaunt  and  cold  and 
wretched  enough  to  insure  conviction  by  any  plump 
and  well-warmed  magistrate. 

There  were  miles  and  miles  of  superb  loneliness, 
and  I  think  the  effects  were  finer  in  the  suffused  light 
than  they  would  have  been  had  the  sun  been  shin- 
ing directly  into  the  valley.  There  were  miles  and 
miles  of  silence  and  solitude,  broken  at  rare  inter- 

[241] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

vals  by  coming  upon  a  tiny  snow-bound  village, 
with  roofs  covered  deep  with  snow,  with  tunnel-like 
paths  cut  through  the  snow,  with  fir  trees  emerging 
out  of  the  snow,  with  snow,  snow  everywhere  and  a 
general  effect  as  of  being  quite  cut  off  from  the 
world. 

Though  it  was  cold,  the  ride  was  not  disagreeable. 
The  absence  of  wind  had  much  to  do  with  this. 
And  as  the  hours  passed  the  cold  gradually  lessened. 

By  noon  I  came  to  a  delightfully  situated  town, 
with  its  snow-covered  houses  nestled  at  the  foot 
of  snow-clad  slopes  and  peaks. 

Cortina,  this — but  how  different  from  the  familiar 
Cortina  of  summer! — Cortina  d'Ampezzo — the  Mag- 
nificent Commune  of  Ampezzo,  as  the  appreciative 
Venetians  named  it  when  they  took  possession  of 
this  region  five  centuries  ago.  But  the  place  is 
Austrian  now. 

One  never  becomes  fully  accustomed  to  the  con- 
tradictions of  these  mountains.  Here,  at  an  alti- 
tude somewhat  higher  than  that  of  Toblach,  the 
sun  at  mid-day  shone  with  such  warmth  as  to  melt 
snow  in  the  streets,  and  I  ate.  a  delightful  luncheon 
in  an  oriel-windowed  alcove,  heated  by  the  genial 
sunlight  alone. 

I  walked  up  some  of  \he  mountain  roads  and 
reveled  in  effects  of  snowy  glory  and  white  loveli- 
ness, and  returned  to  the  inn  at  evening  with  the 
fierce  cold  creeping  wolfishly  down  again  from  the 

[242] 


Through  the  Dolomites  in  Winter 

heights.  Now  there  was  a  fire  in  the  dining  room 
and  a  great  fire  was  heating  my  bedroom,  and  I 
found  that,  not  content  with  giving  me  the  usual 
brass  hot-water  jar  of  winter  Europe,  the  warm- 
hearted hostess  had  put  in  two,  making  the  bed  a 
thing  of  coziness.  Of  the  many  hotels  of  Cortina, 
this  was  the  only  one  that  was  open,  all  the  rest 
being  closed  and  empty.  There  is  always  one,  even 
in  small  and  isolated  towns,  for  local  and  military 
custom. 

There  is  a  pretty  general  belief  among  Ameri- 
cans not  only  that  we  are  the  people  and  political 
wisdom  will  die  with  us,  but  also  that  it  was  born 
with  us.  It  tends  toward  modesty,  therefore,  to  see 
how  these  ancient  communes  have  been  getting 
along  for  sundry  centuries,  with  such  a  degree  of 
popular  government  and  popular  rights,  as  to  show 
that  these  were  not  novelties  made  in  America. 
Cortina  was  long  part  of  that  Italian  republic  of 
Cadore  which,  enduring  for  centuries,  gave  great 
popular  freedom  and  frowned  explicitly  upon  nobles 
and  titles  of  nobility. 

And  it  is  pleasant  to  find  that  old  records  tell 
of  this  region  sending  a  gift  of  larch  timbers  to 
Venice  when  ships  were  needed  for  a  fleet  against 
the  Turks,  and  sending  trees  to  help  in  the  rebuild- 
ing of  the  Palace  of  the  Doges  after  a  destructive 
fire,  these  being  probably  the  very  roof-timbers 
that  we  see  in  the  Palace  to-day. 

[243] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

A  pleasant  feature  of  winter  travel  is  that  it  finds 
people  glad  to  talk  of  the  things  that  mean  much 
to  them — that  is,  if  they  find  that  a  visitor  cares 
to  hear.  And  so  I  was  told  that  Cortina  is  ruled  by 
a  burgomaster  who  is  chosen  by  the  vote  of  the  male 
citizens;  a  citizen  being  a  man,  of  voting  age,  who 
pays  taxes;  but  that  there  is  a  droll  qualification 
of  this,  which  is,  that  a  man  who  still  lives  at  home, 
in  a  house  which  belongs  to  his  mother,  is  not  a 
master,  and  therefore  has  no  vote! 

The  burgomaster  holds  office  for  three  years,  and 
I  found  the  present  incumbent  to  be  a  practical, 
sensible,  everyday  farmer. 

"He  sees  to  everything,"  the  citizens  say.  And, 
indeed,  he  acts  as  magistrate  as  well  as  mayor, 
and  settles,  formally  or  informally,  all  the  dis- 
putes of  the  place.  Everything  relating  to  town 
business,  everything  relating  to  marriage  or  death 
or  to  expected  marriage  or  death,  every  matter 
of  business  or  building,  is  in  his  province.  If  a 
man  wishes  so  slight  a  thing  as  to  change  the  posts 
of  his  porch,  the  burgomaster  must  preliminarily 
inspect  and  give  or  withhold  consent.  "He  is  our 
father,"  said  a  townsman,  simply,  to  me.  And 
what  might  be  tyranny  is  checked  by  his  being  an 
elective  officer;  one  of  the  people,  set  in  place  by  the 
people,  with  a  definite  term  in  which  to  wield  the 
burgomasterial  sceptre. 

With  all  this,  it  would  seem  as  if  there  were  little 

[244] 


Through  the  Dolomites  in  Winter 

room  for  anyone  else,  yet  there  is  a  Capitano — the 
people  all  use  this  Italian  title — who  is  in  charge  of 
the  military  of  the  commune.  He  has  an  eye  on 
things  in  general,  and  his  gold-laced  uniform  seems 
to  keep  the  people  from  forgetting  that  there  is  a 
government  at  Vienna. 

There  are  community  forests  and  community  pas- 
tures, each  citizen  having  the  right  to  a  certain 
amount  of  firewood  annually  and  to  pasturage  for 
his  cows;  these  privileges  coming  from  the  old 
Italian  days.  The  forests  are  of  great  extent, 
stretching  over  miles  and  miles  of  mountain  land, 
and  a  few  watchmen  keep  record  as  the  citizens 
report  their  woodtaking.  In  the  wild  upland  pas- 
tures, in  the  midst  of  an  immense  loneliness,  a  few 
herdsmen,  paid  a  pittance  by  each  owner,  care 
for  the  high-wandering  stock. 

Every  man  is  ambitious  to  own  a  bit  of  land  of 
his  own;  and  for  this  land  hunger,  old  as  all  time, 
provision  has  been  wisely  made.  For,  just  outside 
of  the  close-built  town,  on  the  nearly  level  portions 
of  the  long-sloping  mountain  sides,  are  numberless 
little  square  stones  and  wooden  pegs— boundary 
marks,  separating  unfenced  patch  from  patch. 

An  industrious,  hard-working  folk,  these.  When 
the  last  tourist  disappears  they  do  not  begin  leth- 
argically to  await  another  tourist  season.  The 
men  who  in  summer  are  guides  or  waiters  or  carriage 
drivers  turn  in  winter  to  one  or  another  of  the  many 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

town  industries.  There  are  iron-workers,  makers  of 
locks  and  keys,  workers  in  wood-carving,  in  furni- 
ture, in  inlay  and  filigree,  and  mosaic.  Nor  do  the 
shops,  tucked  into  every  corner,  show  any  outward 
or  visible  sign  of  their  character,  except  perhaps  for 
some  slow-turning  water-wheel.  There  are  schools 
for  artisans;  sewing-schools  for  girls;  excellent  com- 
mon schools  for  all.  And  any  tramp,  any  wanderer 
without  visible  means  of  support,  is  led  to  the 
commune  boundary  and  admonishingly  sent  on  his 
way. 

As  in  most  of  Europe,  things  of  the  old  time  have 
been  succeeded  largely  by  the  modern;  yet  the 
women  still  wear  the  little  round  black-bestreamered 
hats,  which  they  touch,  in  saluting,  like  men,  and  in 
their  short  skirts  they  walk  stridingly.  And  in  spite 
of  a  destructive  fire  of  nearly  a  century  ago  there 
are  still  houses  of  the  charming  ancient  fashion,  with 
wooden  roofs  and  outside  wooden  galleries,  a  kind 
of  building  still  common  in  the  remoter  villages. 

Often  one  is  tempted  to  follow  one  of  the  slender, 
zig-zag  roads  far  up  some  slope  and  over  a  ridge  into 
an  adjoining  valley.  There  is  the  constant  beauty 
of  the  mountains,  merging  far  away  into  a  soft 
agglomeration  of  mistiness;  from  peaks  that  tower 
thousands  of  feet  upward  snow  blows  gently,  trail- 
ing clouds  of  glory,  bannering  the  peaks  with  a  per- 
fect white  that  shimmers  against  the  perfect  blue 
of  the  sky.  And  at  your  feet,  where  the  sun  has 

[246] 


Through  the  Dolomites  in  Winter 

cleared  an  open  space,  you  may  see  tiny  Alpen 
roses  showing  in  the  face  of  this  winter  landscape 
and  these  stupendous  heights.  Evening  approaches; 
and  long  after  the  valleys  and  the  lower  slopes  are 
twilighted  in  steel  cold,  a  rosy  glow  lingers  on  the 
summits.  Then  I  have  seen  the  light  of  the  young 
moon  give  a  tender  glory  to  it  all;  I  have  watched 
the  snow-wreaths  gather  thickly  around  some  sum- 
mit and  the  snow  come  falling  in  soft-sheeted  mys- 
teriousness;  and  I  have  listened  to  a  great  wind 
stirring  among  the  forests  and  come  roaring  fiercely 
down. 

Few  of  the  natives  of  this  region  have  any  desire 
to  emigrate  or  even  the  desire  to  visit  other  lands. 
They  are  prosperous;  they  are  happy;  with  energy 
they  work  and  they  play.  They  have  sport  with 
sleds,  with  snowshoes,  with  skis.  Genially  gregarious, 
they  love  to  gather  in  pleasant  parties,  love  to  make 
music  for  each  other  with  zithers,  with  horns,  with 
full  orchestra.  The  world  forgotten,  they  are,  in 
winter,  by  the  world  forgot,  and  all  the  charm  of 
their  nature  comes  to  the  surface. 

Before  feast  days  they  build  great  fires  in  the  fields. 
It  is  still  a  custom  for  a  young  man  to  set  a  ladder 
to  a  girl's  window,  mount  it,  tap,  and  talk  with  her— 
this  being  a  survival  of  the  ancient  Italian  custom 
which  Shakespeare  utilizes  in  having  Romeo  go  to 
Juliet's  balcony  and  Valentine  plan  to  meet  Sylvia. 

Other  ancient  customs  are  followed.  At  a  mar- 

[247] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

riage,  from  eight  to  twelve  young  men,  dressed  as 
knights  of  old,  with  swords  and  helmets,  attend  the 
bride  to  church.  There  is  seldom  a  wedding  journey. 
Friends  and  relatives  go  to  the  new-married  couple's 
home  for  a  feast,  and  always  the  door  is  locked  so 
that  a  man  may  come  and,  after  crying  out  that  he 
demands  the  bride,  shall  try  to  break  in  and  carry 
her  off.  Wedding  gifts  are  usually  of  money,  a  gen- 
erous gift  being  from  two  to  five  kronen;  a  krone 
being  of  the  value  of  twenty- two  cents.  But  one 
need  not  go  to  the  Dolomites  to  learn  that  riches  is 
a  relative  word. 

On  my  first  winter  visit  to  Cortina  there  were 
just  three  visitors  there:  a  mother  and  two  sons, 
North  Germans,  who  were  in  the  Dolomites  to  ski; 
and  it  is  a  tremendous  sight  to  see  a  skier  come 
flying — at  times  literally  flying! — down  a  mountain 
side.  On  my  second  visit  there  was  but  one  stranger, 
an  Austrian,  a  well-to-do  man,  apparently  in  the 
Dolomites  on  business.  And  with  him  I  had  an 
amusing  experience. 

My  sledge  from  Toblach  returned  to  that  place 
from  Cortina,  and  when  I  was  ready  to  go  on  south- 
ward I  looked  about  for  another.  After  I  had  bar- 
gained for  it,  this  Austrian  came  up  and  said,  with 
a  smile: 

"I  should  like  to  share  your  sledge  to  Pieve  di 
Cadore.  You  are  American.  I  shall  pay  one  quar- 


ter." 


[248] 


WINTER  IN  THE  ITALIAN  ALPS  - 


riage,  • 

% 

' 

cany 


am: 


mountain 

;rently  in  the 
im  I  had  an 

to  that  place 
3  go  on  south- 
er I  had 

d,  with 

re  to  Piev 

one  quar- 


A 


Through  the  Dolomites  in  Winter 

"Why  not  one-half?"  I  asked. 

"Because  you  are  an  American!"  he  replied;  in 
the  calm  assurance,  that  some  Europeans  still  have, 
that  an  American  should  naturally  be  expected  to 
pay  more  than  his  share. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  I  declined  his  company  and 
sledged  alone. 

When  I  left  Cortina  it  was  to  sledge  onward  over 
the  border  and  into  Italy;  and  in  less  than  four 
miles  the  border-line  was  reached,  where  near  to- 
gether stand  poles  striped  with  the  green  and  white 
and  red  of  Italy  and  poles  striped  with  the  yellow 
and  black  of  Austria.  And  here  the  soldiers,  acting 
not  only  as  national  sentinels,  but  as  customs'  guards, 
came  out,  brilliant  bits  of  color,  in  their  uniforms, 
amid  the  snow  and  the  evergreens,  and  they  were 
amazed  to  see  an  American,  and  eagerly  talked  for 
a  little.  They  had  had  enough  of  snow  and  soli- 
tude! 

Proceeding,  there  are  villages  precariously  hud- 
dled between  gorge  and  precipice;  there  is  wider 
opulence  of  color  in  costume;  there  are  women  with 
huge  burdens  on  their  heads;  clustered  about  village 
fountains  there  are  green-kerchiefed  women  with 
shiny  kettles  of  copper  that  they  carry  dangling 
from  curved  yokes  of  wood;  there  are  lofty  forts 
commanding  the  road,  with  sentinels  silhouetted 
against  the  sky.  Steadily  the  air  grows  warmer, 


[249] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

and  the  snow  that  falls  will  soon  disappear  from  the 
heights. 

Vastly  interesting  are  the  old-time  inns  in  the 
region  that  is  now  entered,  for  here,  as  farther  north 
among  these  mountains,  the  tourist  part  of  the 
house  is  closed  and  the  traveler  is  shown  into  the 
common-room,  which  is  here  sitting-room,  kitchen, 
and  dining-room  combined.  And  always  it  is  a 
room  low-ceilinged  and  heavy-beamed,  with  the  fire 
in  its  very  center  on  a  massive  hearth  built  of  stone, 
some  two  and  a  half  feet  high  and  eight  feet  square. 
The  smoke  ascends  through  a  great  suspended  cover, 
like  a  square  umbrella  of  wood,  and  looking  up  into 
this  one  sees  hams  and  sausages,  cranes,  and  iron 
chains.  A  high  seat  is  around  three  sides  of  this 
primitive  and  fascinating  fireplace;  a  seat  so  high 
that  the  men,  sitting  there,  rest  their  feet  on  the 
high  stone  hearth.  There  are  double-ended  and- 
irons of  monumental  size.  A  pot  is  boiling  over  the 
fire.  Meat  is  broiled.  The  men  eat  and  drink  and 
smoke,  and  there  are  little  shelves  that  they  draw 
out  for  their  dishes  or  tobacco.  A  low  door  leads 
into  the  wine  vault,  and  there  is  suggestion  of  casks 
and  beams,  of  drink  and  mystery  and  romance, 
strongly  remindful  of  the  Three  Musketeers.  The 
hostess  serving,  the  light  gleaming  from  rows  of 
polished  copper  and  pewter,  the  coarse  stone  floor, 
the  chopped  bread  for  soup,  the  grated  cheese,  the 
walls  blackened  by  generations  of  smoke,  the  lights 

[250] 


Through  the  Dolomites  in  Winter 

and  shadows — all  at  once  you  have  been  set  back  for 
centuries  into  a  centuries-old  past. 


XVII.    A    WILLIAM    TELL    OF    UNVISITED 
MOUNTAINS 

"OST  interesting  of  all  the 
Italian  towns  of  the  Dolo- 
mites is  Pieve  di  Cadore. 
It  is  a  small  and  compact 
place,  a  village  set  upon  a 
hill,  with  houses  large,  of 
stone,  with  wide-project- 
ing eaves.  It  is  a  charm- 
ingly situated  and  very 
ancient  town,  whose  name, 
Italian  fashion,  has  the 
softly  musical  pronunciation,  with  the  accent  on  the 
second  syllable  of  each  three-syllabled  word,  of  Pee- 
avay  dee  Cadoray. 

While  at  Pieve,  which  is  over  the  border  in  the 
Italian  Alps,  Cortina  being  Austrian,  it  came  to  me 
that  hereabouts  there  was  much  fighting  back  in 
the  troublous  times  of  '48;  that  in  this  region  the 
Alpine  mountaineers  fought  to  recover  their  free- 
dom and  overthrow  the  Austrian  dominion,  as  they 
did  in  the  days  of  William  Tell;  and  that  this  race 
were  Italian  instead  of  Swiss,  and  were  fighting 
not  for  Swiss  government,  but  to  re-establish  that 

[252] 


A  William  Tell  of  Unvisited  Mountains 

of  their  beloved  Italy,  did  not  in  the  least  lessen  the 
fascination  of  it  all,  nor  its  strange  resemblance  to 
the  picturesque  warfare  of  centuries  ago. 

A  large  part  of  these  Eastern  Alps  is  Italian. 
For  generations  the  people  of  this  region  have 
been  Italian  in  race,  in  tradition,  and  in  feeling,  but 
by  the  division  of  Europe  which  followed  the  Napo- 
leon wars  this  part  of  the  Alps  was  given  to  Austria, 
regardless  of  the  feelings  of  the  inhabitants.  But 
in  1848,  that  year  of  revolutions  in  Continental 
Europe,  came  the  opportunity  to  rebel,  and  these 
Alpine  mountaineers  rose  against  the  Austrians, 
defeated  them,  and  regained  from  them  much  of 
the  mountain  territory. 

The  picture  of  it  all  grew  more  vivid  to  my  fancy. 
Alpine  mountaineers  fighting  here  against  the  Aus- 
trians, as  in  the  days  of  William  Tell,  yet  within  the 
memory  of  men  now  living! — and  with  this  thought 
there  came  another.  Here,  where  I  was  visiting 
an  unvisited  Switzerland,  how  fascinating  it  would 
be  if  I  could  actually  find  some  ancient  veteran 
who  had  fought,  more  than  sixty  long  years  ago, 
just  as  the  early  Swiss  patriots  fought  six  hundred 
long  years  ago! 

Instantly  I  sought  out  the  landlord.  "I  should 
like,"  I  said  slowly,  "to  talk  with  some  old  man  who 
fought  here  in  1848  against  the  Austrians." 

His  round  face  lengthened  into  doubting  gravity. 
"But  is  there  such  a  man?"  he  asked. 

[253] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

"Surely,"  I  replied,  with  matter-of-fact  confi- 
dence. 

He  was  silent  a  few  moments.  Then:  "If  the 
signor  can  wait,  I  shall  inquire,"  he  said.  And  I 
thought,  as  I  have  often  thought,  how  delightfully 
helpful  a  European  landlord  can  be! 

He  sought  me  out  in  the  town  in  an  hour  or  so, 
and  said  that  he  had  learned  of  a  '48  veteran  living 
in  a  village  in  another  valley.  "With  delight  I  shall 
lead  you  there,"  he  said,  beaming  as  he  saw  how 
much  he  had  pleased  me.  "But"-— with  a  touch  of 
doubt — "It  is  to  walk! — it  is  a  mountain  path — 
and  the  snow — " 

I  reassured  him  as  to  the  walk  and  the  snow,  and 
we  set  off  together  over  the  mountain,  and  reached  a 
tiny  hamlet,  a  huddle  of  ancient  stone  houses,  pre- 
cariously clinging  midway  against  a  mountain- 
side with  a  precipice  dropping  far  down  in  sheer 
abruptness  in  front,  and  the  mountain  towering 
rugged  and  steep  far  above. 

He  led  me  to  the  ancient  veteran's  ancient  house, 
where  the  old  man  greeted  me,  his  eyes  glowing 
with  happiness.  "  Buon9  giorno"  he  said.  He 
tried  to  draw  up  his  stiff  form  with  soldierly  dig- 
nity. "I  am  Natale  Tabachi,"  he  said;  and  then, 
with  pride:  "You  would  have  me  tell  of  the  fight- 
ing?" 

We  sat  down  in  a  low-ceilinged,  heavy-beamed 
room,  around  a  fireplace  of  the  ancient  type,  built 

[254] 


es  or  Mid  fcurope 
ed,    with 


is  to  walk 

n  as  to 
ether  over 


ith  a  touch  of 
in  tain  pa 

and  the  snow,  and 
and  reached  a 
stone  houses,  pre- 
a    mountain- 
Far  down  in  sheer 
lountain  towering 

m's  ancient  house, 
plowing 

f.      He 
ly  dig- 

•f  the  fight- 


tvr>e»  built 


A  William  Tell  of  Unvisited  Mountains 

out  in  the  very  center  of  the  room,  with  open  space 
all  around  it. 

We  sat  down  in — or  rather  climbed  up  on — chairs 
with  stilt-like  legs,  made  thus  high  to  permit  of  put- 
ting one's  feet  on  top  of  the  fireplace  hearth,  and  the 
veteran  beamed  expectantly.  But  I  knew  that  this 
was  not  a  case  where  some  slight  understanding  of 
ordinary  Italian  words  would  be  satisfactory,  so 
I  said  to  the  landlord: 

"This  is  delightful;  and  now  I  should  like  some- 
one who  can  translate  for  me." 

His  round  face  lengthened.  "But  is  there  such 
a  one?"  he  asked. 

"Surely,"  I  replied. 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  moments.  Then:  "If 
the  signer  can  wait,  I  shall  inquire,"  he  said.  And 
within  fifteen  minutes  he  was  back,  proudly  leading 
a  young  Italian  who  had  only  the  week  before  re- 
turned to  his  native  home  after  three  years  spent  in 
Boston  and  New  York! 

And  then,  in  that  ancient  house  at  the  very  edge 
of  a  precipice,  a  house  looking  over  a  superb  view  of 
valley  and  mountains,  we  talked  together. 

"I  have  never  before  talked  with  any  but  my  own 
people,"  he  began;  and  I  was  glad,  for  it  assuredly 
made  him  an  runvisited  mountaineer  among  these 
unvisited  mountains — practically  unvisited  even  in 
summer,  this  village,  set  off  as  it  is  from  the 
tourist  track  that  reaches  to  Pieve. 

[255] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

Gradually  the  old  man  warmed  eagerly  and 
more  eagerly  to  his  subject,  as  old-time  memories 
came  charging  to  his  mind,  and  his  old  voice  trem- 
bled with  emotion. 

"I  live  among  these  mountains.  They  are  my 
home.  It  was  among  these  mountains  that  I  was 
born — I,  Natale  Tabachi.  And  it  is  here  that  I 
shall  die.  But  although  I  was  born  as  a  sub- 
ject of  Austria  I  shall  go  to  my  grave  as  a  free 
man. 

"It  was  long  ago  that  I  was  born.  I  am  old,  and 
it  is  easy  to  forget.  But  see — here  are  my  papers. 
I  was  still  a  young  man  when  we  fought  the  Austrians 
in  1848. 

"I  do  not  forget  that  date.  No!  For  here,  on  my 
medal,  it  is  set  down.  Do  you  see?  Will  you  read 
it  to  me?  '  Ai  Difensori  del  Cadore,  1848.'  Yes; 
that  is  it;  for  I  was  born  a  man  of  Pieve  de  Cadore 
and  I  fought  for  it  against  the  Austrians.  Do  you 
wonder  that  I  love  this  old  medal  and  its  little  rib- 
bon of  green  and  yellow? 

"We  are  Italians,  we;  and  why  should  we  be 
under  Austria?  Italians,  all;  and  our  fathers  and 
their  fathers  were  Italian.  And  we  did  not  like  it 
that  the  Austrian  flag  flew  over  the  forts  among  our 
mountains.  Why  should  the  Austrians  hold  our 
great  Alps  and  our  valleys  and  our  villages  because 
kings  or  rulers  far  away  said  that  the  line  of  bound- 
ary should  be  so  and  so  and  so? 

[256] 


A  William  Tell  of  Unvisited  Mountains 

"In  the  year  that  was  to  have  the  great  fighting 
there  was  much  unrest.  Men  gathered  and  talked 
and  said,  'There  will  be  changes.'  And  rumors  came 
of  unrest  in  the  land,  and  again  men  said:  'There 
will  be  changes  here.  We  will  not  be  under  the 
Austrians.' 

"And  other  men  came  among  us  from  the  South, 
and  quietly  they  went  about,  and  it  was  not  long  be- 
fore we  said  that  we  would  be  free  and  that  we 
would  no  longer  obey  the  Austrians.  I  do  not  re- 
member all.  I  am  old  and  there  is  much  that  I  for- 
get. But  I  well  remember  that  we  were  to  fight  the 
Austrians  and  that  some  of  us  were  hunters  and  had 
guns,  and  that  for  others  there  were  guns  that  came 
from  Venice.  And  we  were  gathered  together  in 
bands. 

"Our  leader  was  the  Capitano  Calvi.  A  man  of 
fire,  he !  A  soldier !  He  was  not  of  these  mountains, 
but  was  an  Italian  of  the  South.  I  do  not  remember 
just  how  he  came  to  us,  but  only  that  he  came  and 
was  our  leader  and  that  we  obeyed  him  with  glad- 
ness, for  he  was  a  brave  man  and  he  knew  the  rules 
of  war.  A  young  man,  too:  perhaps  thirty,  perhaps 
a  little  more;  slender  and  tall  and  with  a  long 
mustache  upon  his  upper  lip;  and  with  eyes  that 
flashed. 

"So  we  gathered  in  the  mountains  and  we  knew 
that  the  soldiers  would  come  against  us.  A  few 
said,  'They  will  not  dare  to  come.'  But  the  most 

[257] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

of  us,  we  knew  that  was  foolish,  for  of  course 
the  Austrians  would  not  go  away  without  trying  to 
kill  us. 

"We  had  no  uniforms.  We  were  dressed  just  as 
we  worked  in  the  villages  and  on  our  land.  But  we 
could  shoot  and  we  would  not  let  the  Austrians  stay 
with  us. 

"I  had  often  seen  the  soldiers.  Well  did  I  know 
the  tall  hats  and  the  straps  across  the  breast  and  the 
knapsacks  and  the  guns.  Often  had  I  said  '  Buon' 
giorno'  when  I  passed  them  in  the  road.  But  never 
had  I  thought  to  fight  them. 

"So  we  gathered;  and  one  day — it  was  in  May — 
we  were  near  Chiapuzza.  You  know  the  place?  And 
the  valley  is  very  narrow  there,  with  great  heights 
of  mountain,  for  always  the  Capitano  Calvi  he 
chose  such  places  for  us.  And,  indeed,  as  you  have 
seen,  there  is  little  in  this  land  but  great  mountains 
and  great  depths. 

"And  we  saw  the  Austrians  coming  up  the  valley. 
We  looked,  and  we  said,  '  There  are  two  thousand 
of  them.'  We  watched  them,  for  we  had  often  seen 
them  march  through  the  valleys  when  there  was 
peace  between  us.  We  saw  the  high  hats  and  the 
straps  across  the  breasts  and  the  guns.  And  the  sun 
glistened  upon  the  steel,  for  it  was  a  bright  and 
sunny  day,  and  it  was  about  the  time  of  noon.  I 
am  old,  and  I  forget  much,  but  still  there  is  much 
that  I  can  remember. 

[258] 


A  William  Tell  of  Unvisited  Mountains 

"Our  guns  were  ready,  but  the  Capitano  had  told 
us  that  we  must  not  fire  till  we  were  told,  and  he 
was  a  man  to  obey. 

"We  saw  the  Austrians  stop;  and  perhaps  two, 
three,  I  do  not  remember,  walked  forward  with  a 
white  flag,  and  men  said,  'It  is  peace,  not  war,  and 
there  will  be  no  fight.'  And  we  were  troubled,  and 
we  did  not  understand,  and  we  were  very  silent  as 
we  watched,  and  we  saw  that  the  Austrians  were 
met  by  our  men  and  that  there  was  talk. 

"Afterward,  men  said  that  the  Austrian  leader 
had  sent  to  tell  us  to  throw  down  our  guns  and  go 
home  and  be  sorry  and  that  there  would  be  pardon, 
but  that  our  Capitano  he  only  laughed  and  he  said, 
'We  will  fight.' 

"And  did  I  tell  you  that  the  women,  many  of  our 
women,  were  with  us?  For  they  had  said,  'We, 
too,  will  fight.'  And  each  of  the  women  had  her 
great  field-fork.  You  have  seen  them?  And  each 
of  the  women  was  strong.  For  our  women,  they 
work  in  the  mountain  fields  and  carry  heavy  loads 
and  toss  hay  or  straw  with  forks,  and  they  are 
strong. 

"We  had  put  the  women  behind  us  to  fight  if  the 
Austrians  came  close.  For  they  had  said,  'We  will 
fight  to  save  ourselves  from  the  Austrians  if  they 
get  past  you.' 

"And  now  they  screamed,  high  and  loud,  those 
women — yes,  high  and  loud.  Have  you  heard 

[259] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

women  scream  when  they  would  stab  and  kill? 
It  is  not  a  pretty  sound.  It  is  a  very  terrible  sound. 
For  us  men,  to  fight  and  to  kill  is  a  part  of  our  lives. 
If  it  comes,  it  comes.  It  is  right  for  man.  But  for 
women  it  is  different.  And  they  screamed,  a  laugh- 
ing sort  of  scream,  as  the  Austrian  men  were  sent 
away,  and  the  sound  went  back  and  forth  among 
the  cliffs. 

"And  all  the  time  the  bells  of  the  village  were 
ringing.  They  were  ringing  fast  and  mad — ringing, 
ringing,  ringing.  And  in  other  villages  the  bells  were 
ringing  fast  and  mad,  and  the  sounds  came  to  us 
through  the  valleys. 

"The  bells  they  rang  so  fast  and  so  mad  to  make 
the  alarm  and  tell  all  men  to  come  and  help  us,  and 
we  knew  that  as  they  rang  our  friends  and  brothers 
were  coming  running  over  the  mountains  and  through 
the  valleys. 

"It  was  over  sixty  years  ago,  and  I  am  old,  and 
there  is  much  that  I  forget,  but  never  can  I  forget 
the  mad  ringing  of  those  bells.  It  was  a  sound  to 
make  you  weep,  but  also  to  make  you  grip  your 
gun  and  know  that  you  were  ready  to  fight  and 
to  die. 

"Well,  the  messengers  went  back,  and  the  women 
screamed,  and  even  the  boys  who  were  with  us  to 
fight  cried  out,  and  when  we  men,  watching  so  anx- 
iously, saw  that  there  was  to  be  a  fight,  we  too  made 
a  great,  loud  cheer. 

[260] 


A  William  Tell  of  Unvisited  Mountains 

"The  soldiers  came  on,  but  they  were  cautious 
and  they  came  slowly.  They  fired  at  us  from  dis- 
tances; and  we  aimed  and  we  fired  at  them,  for  so 
the  command  had  come  to  us.  We  aimed  at  the 
men  just  as  we  would  aim  at  the  chamois,  but  I  do 
not  believe  we  thought  of  that  at  all,  even  though 
we  had  often  said  ' Buon'  giorno'  on  the  road.  We 
wanted  to  kill,  for  we  were  hunting  them,  and 
whenever  an  Austrian  fell  we  shouted  for  joy. 

"For  three  hours,  four  hours — I  cannot  tell — we 
aimed  and  we  fired,  and  the  Austrians  fired,  and 
sometimes  their  bullets  would  hit  a  rock  near  us  and 
send  splinters. 

"But  at  last  they  had  had  enough,  and  they  went 
off,  sullen  and  slow,  toward  the  north,  toward  the 
place  from  which  they  had  come.  They  carried  their 
wounded  with  them,  but  they  left  their  dead,  and  we 
buried  them.  And,  though  they  were  young  men, 
we  felt  no  pity,  for  we  thought  only  that  we  were 
fighting  for  our  land. 

"Well,  the  war  went  on.  And  for  days  together, 
at  a  place  a  little  farther  south,  we  fought  the  Aus- 
trians again,  and  at  night  we  would  sleep  just  where 
we  were,  lying  down  on  a  rock  or  in  the  middle  of  the 
great  pine  woods,  and  always  there  were  a  few  who 
watched  to  see  that  no  soldiers  came  upon  us  in  the 
dark,  for  so  our  Capitano  told  us,  and  he  knew  the 
rules  of  war. 

"Thus  we  would  sleep  at  night,  and  in  the  day- 

[261] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

time  we  would  creep  up  the  cliffs  and  climb  over 
great  rocks  to  watch  the  soldiers  and  to  shoot  at 
them. 

"And  whenever  an  Austrian  was  hit  and  went 
falling,  falling  down,  tumbling  over  and  over  like  a 
great  stone  that  had  been  rolled  over  the  edge,  we 
shouted  for  joy. 

"For  the  Austrians  they  burned  our  houses;  they 
burned  our  villages;  they  killed  our  children.  And 
they  misused  our  women.  And  so  it  was  that  we 
shouted  for  joy  whenever  we  saw  one  go  tumbling 
and  tumbling  far  down  like  a  great  clumsy  stone. 

"So  there,  too,  the  Austrians  could  not  pass  us, 
could  not  drive  us  from  our  mountains,  and  for 
some  days  we  marched  and  climbed  and  waited  for 
them  again. 

"Often  we  were  hungry.  We  shot  a  little  game,  but 
we  did  not  like  to  waste  powder  and  ball  just  for  food 
to  eat  when  we  needed  it  for  the  Austrians.  But 
our  women  they  followed  us  up  the  mountain  paths, 
carrying  food  for  us,  and  we  would  build  fires  and 
cook  our  polenta  and  drink  from  the  mountain 
springs  and  sometimes  tell  stories  and  sing  and 
even  dance.  But  there  was  not  much  of  that,  for 
we  did  not  know  when  the  soldiers  might  come, 
and  it  was  not  well  to  make  a  merry  noise  to  tell 
them  where  we  were, 

"  There  was  a  priest  with  us,  from  one  of  our 
villages.  He  was  an  eager  man  and  he  said  prayers 

[262] 


A  William  Tell  of  Unvisited  Mountains 

over  us,  far  up  among  the  heights,  and  men  would 
kneel  before  him  for  his  blessing.  And  the  priest 
often  he  would  go  before  us  and  find  a  camping- 
place,  and  he  would  say,  just  like  a  capitano,  'You 
will  camp  here.'  He  was  like  a  'soldier,  that  priest. 
An  eager  man,  an  earnest,  eager  man,  and  he  said 
prayers  over  us  and  blessed  us  when  we  knelt. 

"There  were  many  thousands  of  the  Austrians, 
and  they  came  against  us  from  the  north  and  from 
the  south  and  from  the  east,  so  that  we  did  not  know 
which  way  to  go.  But  our  Capitano  knew,  and  the 
priest  knew,  even  though  we  did  not  know. 

"Sometimes  the  Austrians  attacked  us  in  the 
night,  but  always  our  men  who  were  on  guard 
gave  warning,  and  always  we  jumped  up  quick  from 
where  we  were  sleeping  on  the  rocks  or  beside  some 
fallen  trees,  and  there  would  be  a  little  firing  and 
the  soldiers  would  go  back. 

"At  last — it  was  still  in  that  same  month  of  May, 
but  many  days  had  passed — we  thought  they  were 
coming  at  us  from  the  south  again,  for  at  a  place  in 
the  valley  of  the  Piave,  near  a  little  town  called 
Rivalgo,  where  the  mountains  are  very  high  and  the 
river  runs  swift  through  a  narrow  space,  our  Capi- 
tano made  us  barricade  the  road.  With  wood,  with 
rocks,  we  built  a  barricade.  And  while  some  were 
building  the  barricade  others  were  piling  loose  stones 
far  up  on  the  cliffs  above,  and  others  were  under- 
mining great  rocks  for  powder  to  be  put  under  them. 

[263] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

"All  this  did  our  Capitano  Calvi  order,  and  he 
was  everywhere,  and  his  eyes  were  flashing,  and  he 
was  glad  like  a  man  who  makes  ready  for  a  dance. 
There  is  much  that  I  forget,  but  never  can  I  forget 
our  Capitano,  and  how  he  made  us  work  to  build  the 
barricade  and  pile  stones  and  undermine  the  rocks 
for  powder. 

"At  last  there  was  better  than  building  and 
piling  and  mining,  for  there  was  a  cry,  'The  Aus- 
trians!  They  are  coming!'  And  every  man  went 
to  his  place,  as  our  Capitano  had  directed,  for  he 
knew  the  rules  of  war. 

"The  soldiers  came  on  very  brave,  marching 
steady,  steady,  keeping  step.  Then  they  halted, 
and  spread  out  across  the  narrow  valley,  and  some 
were  set  to  climb  the  rocks.  And  in  all  there  were 
thousands  of  them. 

"  We  cheered  and  we  fired,  and  we  shouted 
when  men  fell;  but  the  Austrians  had  a  leader  who 
would  not  easily  give  up,  and  his  men  all  fired 
back  at  us,  and  more  of  them  were  set  to  climb  the 
rocks. 

"And  then  we  sent  the  stones  rolling  down,  down 
upon  them.  The  powder  was  exploded  and  the  great 
rocks  fell.  And  they  struck  the  Austrians  who  were 
on  the  mountain-side,  and  many  a  man  went  rolling 
down  with  the  rocks.  And  our  men  fired  from  be- 
hind the  barricade. 

"And  many  rocks  went  down  like  live  things, 

[264] 


A  William  Tell  of  Unvisited  Mountains 

leaping  from  point  to  point  and  then  springing  down 
and  scattering  the  soldiers  in  the  road. 

"But  even  yet  the  Austrians  would  not  retreat. 
We  saw  their  officers  urge  them  on,  and  the  most 
active  tried  fast  to  climb  above  us  on  the  moun- 
tain-side. But  always  we  climbed  higher  and  faster 
and  always  we  fired  our  guns  and  rolled  down 
stones. 

"I  am  old  now,  and  my  hands  tremble  and  my 
voice  trembles  and  it  is  hard  to  walk;  but  I  was 
young  then  and  could  climb  and  shout  and  roll 
stones  and  fire  my  gun. 

"And  at  last  they  went  back,  they.  Yes;  the 
Austrians  went  back.  And  we  shouted  for  joy,  and 
we  gathered  around  our  Capitano  and  we  shouted 
for  love  of  him. 

"Their  dead  this  time  we  did  not  bury.  No.  You 
have  seen  how  swift  is  the  Piave?  You  have  seen 
how  we  men  of  the  mountains  float  our  logs  in  it, 
sending  them  down  to  the  plains?  Well,  it  was  so 
that  we  did  with  their  dead.  We  tossed  them  into 
the  river,  those  men  who  had  burned  our  villages 
and  misused  our  women.  We  tossed  them  into  the 
river,  and  we  said,  'You  dead  men,  follow  after  the 
living.'  And  they  followed  fast,  floating,  bobbing, 
tumbling,  in  the  swift  waters  of  the  river. 

"So  it  was  that  the  Austrians  could  not  beat  us; 
for  though  we  were  not  soldiers  we  could  climb  and 
shoot,  and  we  were  fighting  for  our  own  land,  and 

[265] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

our    leader  was    a    soldier  who  knew  the   rules   of 


war." 


He  paused  for  a  long  time,  forgetting  everything 
else  in  memories  of  those  brave  old  days.  Then  he 
said  very  gently: 

"Men  have  said  to  me:  'What  was  the  use  of 
fighting  the  Austrians?  You  are  an  old  man  and 
poor.  How  did  it  profit  you?' 

"Am  I  poor?  I  do  not  know.  But  I  do  not  think 
so. 

"Here  I  sit  in  my  house,  on  a  comfortable  bench, 
with  my  feet  on  the  stone  hearth  built  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  And  is  it  not  a  pleasant  heat  that 
comes  up  from  those  logs?  I  have  heat  and  I  have 
shelter  and  I  have  food.  Here,  in  this  house,  live 
my  children.  Here  are  also  grandchildren.  Soon 
there  will  be  grandchildren's  children,  and  there  will 
still  be  room,  for  we  Italians  are  an  easy  and  a 
friendly  folk  and  there  is  always  room. 

"And  whether  I  sit  in  the  warm  sunshine  at  the 
door,  or  whether  I  look  out  of  my  window,  I  look  up 
at  great  mountain  slopes  and  I  look  down  into  this 
great  valley  at  my  feet,  and  I  know  that  I,  an 
Italian,  am  looking  at  Italian  land.  And  on  that 
fort,  far  up,  is  the  flag  of  my  country  and  not  an 
Austrian  flag!" 

I  returned  to  Pieve  di  Cadore  even  more  ready 
than  before  to  appreciate  the  dearly  bought  liber- 
ties and  the  broad-minded  government  of  the  town 


A  William  Tell  of  Unvisited  Mountains 

and  the  region  round  about,  for  I  now  understood 
that  liberty  and  government  had  been  fought  for 
and  maintained  for  generations  by  such  men  as  this. 

The  Sindaco  of  Pieve,  the  mayor,  serves  for 
five  years.  He  is  elected  by  the  Council,  which  also 
has  supervision  of  roads  and  taxes.  And  the  Coun- 
cil members  are  chosen  by  those  men,  over  twenty- 
one  years  of  age,  who  can  read  and  write.  The 
Sindaco  is  paid  only  in  honor.  "Of  course  he 
has  no  salary,"  is  the  way  the  people  quietly  ex- 
press it.  The  explanation  of  all  this  being  that 
Cadore  was  a  real  and  vital  republic  long  before 
America  was  discovered,  and  that  the  ancient  in- 
fluence still  lives. 

There  are  great  forests,  the  property  of  the 
various  communes,  and  lumbering  is  an  active  busi- 
ness. Tens  of  thousands  of  trees  are  annually  cut 
and  floated  down  the  tumbling  current  of  the  Piave 
to  the  Italian  plain.  For  centuries  these  forests 
supplied  masts  for  the  Venetian  ships,  and  long 
before  that  gave  masts  to  Roman  galleys,  and  the 
Romans  had  a  school  of  forestry  here!  And  several 
hundred  years  ago  there  was  a  threatened  team- 
sters' strike,  which  the  Council  of  Ten  settled  by 
declaring  that,  of  every  hundred  loads  of  wood, 
seventy  might  be  floated  by  water,  but  thirty  must 
be  hauled.  We  need  not  think  that  labor  troubles 
are  new! 

The   people    are    happy.      Wine    is    their   water; 

[267] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

every  one  dances,  every  one  sings,  every  one  plays 
some  musical  instrument;  there  are  amateur  theat- 
ricals; there  are  frequent  holidays  and  feast  days; 
there  is  the  friendly  clink  of  glasses  and  the  still 
more  friendly  three-syllabled  "Salute!" 

There  comes  the  memory  of  an  evening  at  this 
town  of  Pieve  di  Cadore,  when  there  was  an  un- 
planned after-dinner  gathering  in  the  large  room 
that  was  ordinarily  used  only  in  the  busy  season. 
A  piano  stood  there,  and  the  landlord  and  his  two 
pretty  daughters  drifted  in,  and  two  girl  friends 
from  next  door,  and  two  officers  from  the  fort,  and 
a  councillor,  and  the  bald-headed  waiter,  still  with 
his  napkin  draped  over  his  arm.  All  at  once  the 
piano  was  playing,  a  mandolin  was  twanging,  a 
violin  added  its  notes.  Another  moment,  and  the 
pianist,  one  of  the  officers,  jumped  up  and  claimed 
the  prettiest  girl.  The  waiter,  absent-mindedly 
stringing  his  napkin  about  his  neck,  slipped  into  the 
place  at  the  piano  and  madly  thrummed  an  infec- 
tious tune,  while  violin  and  mandolin  hummed  and 
tinkled  in  unison.  For  an  hour  everybody  danced 
or  played.  Everybody  was  spontaneously  happy 
and  natural. 

Pieve  di  Cadore  was  the  birthplace  of  the  mighty 
Titian,  and  upon  the  house  is  the  admirable 
inscription : 

"Cadore  points  out  to  its  guests  the  house  where 
Titian  was  born." 

[268] 


A  William  Tell  of  Unvisited  Mountains 

Close  by  is  a  statue  of  Titian,  belatedly  put  up 
a  few  years  ago;  and  a  heavy  snow  so  covered  the 
head  and  mantled  the  shoulders  as  to  make  it  ab- 
surdly simulate  the  appearance  of  the  late  Queen 
Victoria. 

The  people  love  to  talk  of  Titian.  It  is  as  if  he 
flourished  yesterday.  He  is  the  familiar  glory  of 
the  place.  And  I  remember  an  old  man  who,  clad 
in  trousers  of  marvelously  patched  yellow  and  coat 
of  marvelously  faded  blue,  swept  a  comprehensive 
arm  toward  the  forested  mountains,  the  village- 
dotted  valley,  the  river  down  whose  current  in- 
numerable logs  were  tumbling,  whirling,  plunging, 
rushing  tumultuously,  as  he  said:  "It  was  here  that 
Signor  Titian  sawed  wood."  But  there  was  no  touch 
of  frivolity  in  this;  no  Italian  echo  of  a  figurative 
Americanism;  to  him  it  was  all  very  literal,  very 
serious. 

"You  are  perhaps  interested?"  he  went  on, 
slowly.  "Then  it  is  with  pleasure  that  I  shall  tell. 
The  Signor  Titian,  he  went  from  this,  his  home, 
to  Venice,  and  there  he  painted  pictures — multo!" 
— again  he  waved  a  comprehensive  arm.  "But 
always  he  kept  his  share  in  one  of  the  sawmills  of 
this  valley;  it  was  a  rich  mill  with  much  of  business, 
and  it  made  him  many  thousand  of  lire.  And  every 
year  Signor  Titian  came  back  here  to  his  home. 
It  was  to  see  to  the  money  and  the  business;  for, 
look  you,  a  man  must  live.  Life,  it  is  not  all  the 

[269] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

making  of  pictures!  And  so  he  came  here  every 
summer  time.  It  was  also  for  the  good  air  of  these 
mountains,  for  it  gave  him  the  health  and  the 
strength. 

"And  it  was  because,  one  summer,  he  could  not 
get  back  here  that  he  died.  You  have  heard? 
For  the  plague,  it  broke  out  in  Venice,  and  the 
soldiers  had  made  a  line  and  said  that  no  man 
should  go  out  of  the  city.  And  so  the  signor  died 
there  in  Venice,  instead  of  coming  back  to  the 
mountains  and  getting  more  money  and  health 
and  life." 

Fortunately  I  remembered  that  Titian  was  cut  off 
at  the  age  of  ninety-nine,  but  I  did  not  speak  of 
this. 

One  sees  no  beggars  in  this  region  in  the  off-season 
time;  and  as  to  crime,  or  even  the  suspicion  of  crime, 
there  is  much  of  strictness.  A  man  merely  sus- 
pected may  remain  in  prison  for  months  without 
trial. 

"But  is  that  not  unfair?"  I  asked. 

"Unfair!"  There  was  only  amazement  at  the 
thought.  "Unfair!  Why,  a  man  might  be  ad- 
judged innocent,  and  if  he  were  tried  and  set  free 
promptly  where  would  be  his  punishment!" 

From  Pieve  di  Cadore  southward,  sledging  is 
impossible.  The  climate  grows  steadily  warmer. 
The  mail  coach  is  now  the  means  of  transit,  and  a 
box-seat  should  be  secured.  At  post  inns,  where  the 

[270] 


A  William  Tell  of  Unvisited  Mountains 

horses  are  changed,  the  landlady  bustles  out  into 
the  courtyard,  and  hostlers  appear  from  shadowy 
stables,  and  in  one  such  inn  there  was  a  great  oval 
wine-cistern,  of  coppery  brass,  gloriously  shaped, 
such  as  Paul  Veronese  pictured. 

It  is  a  region  no  longer  of  avalanches,  but  of 
floods  and  land-slides;  and  they  point  out  a  roof- 
less ruin  which  left  its  place,  high  up  on  the  hill- 
side, and  came  slipping  down,  land  and  all,  to  settle 
upon  another  man's  land;  thus  causing  a  lawsuit — 
the  result  of  which  was  long  since  forgotten — as  to 
who  should  be  considered  the  owner,  and  mak- 
ing truth  of  one  of  Mark  Twain's  most  whimsical 
fancies. 

Lower  and  lower  are  the  mountains,  wider  and 
wider  the  valley;  and  at  length  Belluno  is  reached, 
whence  train  may  be  taken  for  Venice. 

And  at  Venice,  looking  back  across  the  interven- 
ing miles,  I  saw  the  Dolomites,  alluring,  inviting, 
full  of  enticement,  rising  beautifully  on  the  distant 
northern  horizon,  and  I  was  glad  that  I  had  found 
the  romance  of  a  winter's  journey  there. 

Titian  used  to  look  at  these  mountains  from  the 
window  of  his  house,  here  in  Venice.  And  one 
fancies  with  what  longing  he  gazed  in  the  final 
hours  when,  his  servants  all  dead  of  the  plague,  he 
himself  mortally  stricken,  thieves  carrying  off  his 
most  precious  belongings  under  his  very  eyes  and 
then  leaving  him  to  lonely  death,  he  took  a  last  and 

[271] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

lingering  look  at  the  mountains  which  he  had  loved 
for  a  lifetime. 


XVIII.    AN   UNFAMILIAR   NAPLES 

TALY    is    full   of   the   unvisited. 
The    average   tourist  seldom  gets 
beyond    Rome,    Florence,   Venice, 
Milan,  Naples,  if  even  he  sees  as 
much  as  that.     Add  those  who  go 
to  Siena,  Perugia,  Palermo,  or  who 
see    Tivoli,    Pisa,    Assissi,    Capri, 
„  Amalfi,  Verona,  and  the  list  of  the 
/  visited  is  nearly  complete.     There 
are  cities  and  provinces  almost  un- 
known;   there   are   ancient  carous 
hill  towns,  the  color  of  old  bones, 
that  never  see  a  stranger. 

And  there  is  so  much  that  is  unvisited  even  in 
the  cities  that  are  largely  visited!  Take  Naples, 
that  marvel  of  a  city — most  visitors  are  satisfied 
with  the  hotel  district  along  the  bay,  and  see  but 
little  of  the  real  city  except  perhaps  for  a  hasty 
drive  along  the  Toledo. 

An  American  friend,  a  widow,  who  loves  to  travel 
and  must  perforce  travel  frequently  alone,  said  to 
me: 

"Every  time  I  go  to  Naples  I  so  much  want  to 
see  the  true  city.  And  every  time  I  drive  out  I 
tell  the  cabman  to  take  me  through  the  old  streets. 

[273] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

But  every  time,  although  he  says,  'Sz,  si,  signora!9 
he  drives  me  to  Posilipo!" 

I  could  only  tell  her  that  it  was  because  there  is 
only  one  way  to  see  the  real  Naples,  the  real  Naples 
both  of  the  past  and  of  the  present,  and  that  is  on 
foot,  for  the  city  is  built  against  a  mountain-side, 
and  the  old  streets  that  are  not  narrow  flights  of 
stone  stairs  climbing  endlessly  in  score  after  score 
of  steps,  are  almost  equally  narrow  and  unbeliev- 
ably cluttered. 

The  old  part  of  the  city,  with  canon  streets  and 
towering  tenements,  is  full  of  marvelous  life  and 
bustle  and  endless  gayety.  Naples  lives  out  of 
doors!  Out  of  doors  women  cook  on  little  char- 
coal stoves  or  comb  their  hair  in  elaborate  coiffures, 
neighbor  assisting  neighbor,  or  make  upholstery 
fringe,  or  chocolate,  rolling  it  primitively  in  a  stone 
trough,  or  they  pick  chickens,  wash  the  children, 
sew — and  always  and  endlessly  gossip.  Men  and  boys 
work  at  making  shoes  and  slippers  and  carving 
wooden  heels,  or  twist  hemp  rope  and  string,  and 
make  a  hundred  other  things,  and,  like  the  women, 
always  and  endlessly  gossip.  And  there  are  in- 
numerable tiny  shops  and  outdoor  stalls,  and  in  and 
out  among  the  people  seated  at  tables  or  benches, 
there  move  continuously  a  gay  and  noisy  throng, 
vivid  in  costumed  colorings;  and  there  are  pan- 
niered  donkeys,  and  now  and  then  comes  a  flock  of 
reddish-brown  nanny-goats,  milked  from  door  to 


A  Fi  NKRAL  WITH  MASKED  ATTENDANTS 


Old  Eur 


he  di 


i  and  I 


noisy  th 
•m   doc 


An  Unfamiliar  Naples 

door!  and  there  are  life  and  gayety  and  the  hum  of 
buzzing  talk,  and  street  singers  and  mandolin  play- 
ers, and  innumerable  street  cries  of  the  strangest,  of 
those  who  sell  charcoal  or  pumpkin-seed  or  fresh 
water  or  snow!  And  people  carry  everything 
imaginable  or  unimaginable,  as  a  man  that  I  re- 
member who  carried  a  coffin  on  his  head!  He  walked 
so  jauntily,  letting  the  coffin  gyrate  with  equal  jaun- 
tiness,  that  it  was  evident  that  it  was  empty,  and 
indeed  a  bystander  told  me  that  it  was.  "It  is 
loaned  for  the  funeral,"  he  said;  "it  is  often  so,  and 
will  be  returned  unused!  It  is  a  pauper's  funeral, 
but  the  dead  man's  friends  are  following  him,  for  it 
is  honorable  to  be  followed  to  the  grave" — himself 
forgetting  thus,  as  he  spoke,  that  the  coffin  was 
empty  and  that  the  body  was  to  be  quietly  taken 
away  without  spoiling  anything  so  expensive!  And 
the  friends  were  a  tail  of  men  trying  their  shuffling 
best  to  keep  up  with  their  jaunty  leader,  and  each 
had  somehow  acquired  for  the  occasion  a  gleaming 
patent-leather  hat — probably  rented  from  the  un- 
dertaker. And  even  all  this  was  not  gloomy;  even 
a  funeral  seemed  only  to  add  to  the  gayety  of  Naples. 

I  have  often,  in  the  old  streets  and  courtyards, 
in  the  narrow  stairs  of  stone,  in  the  theaters,  where 
I  was  the  only  one  who  was  not  an  Italian,  had  all 
the  feelings  of  an  explorer. 

Yet  these  people  are  not  always  gay;  they  are 
impressionable,  temperamental,  excitable,  devout, 

[275] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

and  can  change  to  a  deep  or  passionate  earnest- 
ness. 

They  love  pageantry;  they  love  the  theatrical; 
at  times  they  achieve  a  splendidly  beautiful  effect, 
as  when  they  carpet  a  long  street  thick  with  roses 
for  the  passing  of  their  King.  And  some  of  their 
funerals,  with  stately  catafalque  and  masked  and 
hooded  and  white-robed  men,  are  weirdly  impressive. 

The  particular  patron  saint  of  Naples  is  San 
Gennaro — St.  Januarius — and  the  city  has  pre- 
served some  of  his  dried  blood  for  sixteen  hundred 
years,  and  three  times  a  year  this  blood  liquefies; 
if  rapidly,  it  is  good  for  the  city,  but  if  slowly  (or 
if,  rare  and  terrible  occasion,  it  fails  to  liquefy  at 
all!)  it  is  an  omen  of  great  evil. 

I  went  one  night — it  was  a  Saturday,  April  30 — 
to  see  this  greatest  of  Neapolitan  events,  and  it  was 
a  memorable  experience. 

In  the  course  of  the  day,  the  silver  statue  of  the 
saint,  with  the  priceless  precious  stones  that  adorn 
it,  gifts  from  the  dying  and  the  devout  of  centuries, 
had  been  taken  to  the  ancient  church  of  King 
Robert  of  Sicily — what  romantic  thoughts  the  very 
words  conjure  up ! — and  at  night  was  to  be  returned, 
through  the  heart  of  the  oldest  part  of  the  city,  to  the 
cathedral. 

I  came  upon  the  parade  about  nine  o'clock,  just 
as  it  was  starting  on  the  return.  All  Naples  seemed 
to  be  out,  and  the  cross-streets  and  little  squares 

[276] 


An  Unfamiliar  Naples 

were  packed  with  people,  and  the  doorways  and 
windows  and  balconies  were  jammed,  and  the  very 
roofs  were  thronged.  The  narrow  streets  were  kept 
clear,  practically  from  house  to  house,  as  a  precau- 
tion against  any  concerted  rush  by  robbers,  for  an 
immense  fortune  in  jewels  was  under  convoy. 

Following  a  detail  of  soldiers,  a  long  line  of  priests 
in  full  canonicals  marked  the  way;  then  came  San 
Gennaro,  surrounded  closely  by  soldiers  with  drawn 
swords;  then  two  sedan  chairs,  each  with  a  great 
church  dignitary;  then  lines  of  soldiers  and  police. 

Under  a  baldachin  of  rose-silk  was  the  silver 
statue — or,  to  be  precise,  silver  bust,  for  it  ended 
at  the  waist  line.  An  ancient  piece  of  silver-work 
this,  for  it  was  made  six  centuries  ago.  Upon  the 
head  was  a  bishop's  mitre,  set  with  jewels,  and  upon 
the  body  was  a  garment  heavily  embroidered  with 
gold,  and  at  the  shoulder  line  a  collar,  glowing  with 
precious  stones,  held  a  pendant  and  a  cross,  and 
all  over  the  figure  there  was  the  sparkle  of  myriad 
diamonds  and  the  gleam  of  emeralds  and  the  soft 
glory  of  pearls. 

Four  sturdy  priests  bore  the  bust,  on  a  base  up- 
held by  poles,  at  shoulder  height,  and  it  so  swayed  as 
they  walked  as  to  look  like  a  living  man.  And  also 
there  was  to  be  seen,  carried  under  the  baldachin, 
the  phial  of  dry  blood. 

I  was  at  a  crossing,  and  had  planned  merely  to 
get  a  general  idea  of  the  street  scene  and  then  make 

[277] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

my  way  to  the  cathedral  by  some  open  route,  but  the 
procession  halted,  and  I  asked  some  questions  of  an 
officer  who  for  the  moment  was  standing  beside  me, 
and  he  courteously  answered,  and  then  said,  en- 
tirely to  my  surprise,  for  I  had  not  asked  or  sug- 
gested it,  "Come  inside  the  lines;  you  are  a  stranger." 

I  did  so — thinking  how  differently  an  Italian 
would  be  treated  at  an  American  parade! — and 
went  on  with  the  priests  and  soldiers,  close  behind 
the  swaying  silver  bust. 

The  little  shops  had  small  glares  of  red  light 
along  their  fronts,  there  were  lights  in  the  windows, 
there  were  little  lights  strung  along  the  houses, 
there  were  lights  on  the  balconies  and  roofs.  And 
yet  there  was  no  brilliant  illumination,  and  there 
was  almost  more  of  shadow  than  of  light. 

Looking  up  the  fronts  of  the  tall  houses  there  was 
a  curious  impression  as  of  faces  in  the  air,  for  in 
story  above  story  the  people  were  leaning  outward 
and  looking  downward  from  windows  and  balcon- 
ies, and  the  streets  were  so  narrow  that  these  faces 
seemed  to  be  directly  above.  And  ever  there  came 
rose  petals  fluttering  down  in  a  soft  and  continuous 
shower. 

With  two  bands  playing  stately  music,  the  pro- 
cession went  in  slow  and  stately  fashion  along,  and 
the  glow  of  light  touched  the  blackness  of  the  narrow 
side-streets  and  lit  dark  passages  into  houses  and 
courtyards.  We  passed  the  old,  old  church  where 


A  STAIRWAY  STREET  OF  NAPLES 


Unviv 

my  way  to  \ 

officer  Vv 
and  he 


\nd 
and  there 


:con~ 

t  and  .nous 

oro- 


here 


An  Unfamiliar  Naples 

Boccaccio  first  met  Fiammetta,  and  it  gave  an  odd 
feeling  to  realize  that  I,  an  American,  was  in  a 
religious  pageant  that  had  gone  through  these  very 
streets  not  only  before  America  was  discovered, 
but  long  before  Boccaccio  lived  and  loved.  Always 
there  was  the  shuffling  sound  of  footsteps  on  the 
big,  flat  stones  of  the  street,  and  always  a  mur- 
murous stir  of  cries  that  were  emotional,  but  never 
loud;  always  there  was  an  impressive  air  of  solem- 
nity; always  there  were  hands  stretched  out  toward 
the  swinging  silver  figure  with  ejaculations  or  prayer. 

At  length  we  turned  into  the  Via  del  Duomo,  and 
reached  the  cathedral,  and  the  procession  moved  to 
the  great  center  doors,  and  here  I  would  have  drawn 
off  to  one  side  had  not  the  officer  said  to  me :  "  Stay 
with  us." 

So  through  the  mighty  doorway  the  saint  and  the 
priests  and  a  few  of  the  soldiers  entered  the  im- 
mense cathedral,  and  the  great  doors  were  closed, 
leaving  the  bands  and  the  greater  part  of  the  police 
and  soldiers  on  the  outside,  with  all  of  the  throng 
who  had  massed  along  behind. 

Down  the  center  of  the  cathedral  was  a  broad 
space  kept  entirely  clear,  but  every  inch  along  the 
sides  was  packed  with  massed  humanity.  There 
were  thousands  there. 

The  priests  who  had  led  the  line  fell  behind,  and 
the  baldachin  and  the  statue  headed  the  line,  and 
down  that  central  space,  an  immense  length,  we 

[279] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

slowly  went,  the  officer  still  beside  me,  and  as  we 
neared  the  chancel  I  saw  that  it  would  be  far  better 
to  go  on  as  if  I  were  an  intended  part  of  it  all  rather 
than  to  disturb  the  quiet  orderliness  of  the  cere- 
mony by  leaving  the  baldachin  and  trying  to  find  a 
place  beyond  the  guards  at  the  side.  And  I  was 
glad  of  the  opportunity  to  see  everything  in  such  a 
way,  so  long  as  I  knew  that  I  was  not  intruding,  and 
I  looked  forward  with  keen  anticipation  to  a  close- 
range  view  of  the  miracle. 

We  went  up  the  steps  to  the  chancel,  where  stood 
a  shifting  crowd  of  rich-appareled  ecclesiastics. 
A  guard  of  splendidly  uniformed  soldiers  formed  at 
the  chancel  rail,  and  I  noticed  how  the  altar  lights 
flashed  from  their  helmets.  I  would  certainly  have 
remained,  as  inconspicuous  as  possible,  among  the 
many  in  the  broad  space  inside  the  chancel  rail, 
especially  as  here  the  friendly  officer  had  to  leave  me, 
but  one  of  the  dignitaries  motioned  me  forward, 
and  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  step  to  the  rail  of 
the  high  altar  and  kneel  with  ten  or  a  dozen  whose 
privilege  it  was  to  be  there.  I  think,  looking  back  on 
it,  that  there  was  intent  in  having  a  close-at-hand 
spectator  who  was  not  of  their  faith;  I  had  been  in 
Naples  for  several  months  and  had  often  gone 
about  in  the  ancient  quarters,  and  not  improbably 
I  was  known  as  a  stranger  who  was  interested  in 
the  city,  and  who  would,  therefore,  look  impartially 
at  the  evidence  of  a  miracle.  In  the  first  place,  I 

[280] 


An  Unfamiliar  Naples 

was  fortunate  in  chancing  upon  an  officer  of  real 
authority,  and  he  quite  likely  made  some  sign,  in 
regard  to  me,  to  the  churchman  who  invited  me  to 
the  very  front. 

Now,  with  a  quiet  shuffling,  the  people  moved 
forward  from  the  side  aisles — there  were  no  chairs 
in  the  cathedral — and  filled  the  central  nave,  and 
the  doors  were  opened  and  many  came  crowding  in 
from  the  street. 

The  blood  of  the  saint  was  in  a  finely  wrought 
receptacle  that  in  size  and  shape  was  not  unlike  a 
rolling  pin,  except  that  it  was  three-sided.  It  was 
a  case  of  what  appeared  to  be  silver,  ending  in  two 
rod-like  silver  handles,  and  it  had  three  faces  of 
heavy  glass  or,  what  I  supposed  the  material  really 
to  be,  rock  crystal.  Through  this  crystal  could  be 
seen  two  vials,  one  about  four  times  as  large  as  the 
other,  and  each  about  one-third  full  of  a  dry  and 
sticky-looking  mass. 

An  old,  old  canon,  robed  in  red  and  white,  took  the 
silver  receptacle  in  a  loving  reverence  of  clasp. 
He  held  it  up,  and  the  priests  and  prelates  knelt 
and  watched,  with  upturned  faces,  and  the  immense 
audience  sank  upon  their  knees.  The  front  rows 
showed  faces  eager,  anxious,  strained;  behind  them 
were  faces  dimly  seen,  and  still  farther  behind  there 
was  nothing  but  a  blackness  of  outline,  vaguely 
marking  massed  humanity,  far  back  to  the  great 
doors  and  under  the  lofty  aisles.  And  from  this 

[281] 


Unvisited  Places  ot  Old  Europe 

massed  humanity  there   came  a   curious,   mingled, 
whispering  sound. 

The  ancient  canon,  always  holding  the  silver 
holder  in  plain  view,  turned  it  constantly  around  and 
about,  so  that  the  blood  was  seen  through  one  of  the 
crystals  faces  after  another. 

The  suspense  swiftly  became  extreme.  The  very 
atmosphere  became  a-tingle  with  it.  Anxiety  was 
on  the  edge  of  becoming  excitement. 

But  in  precisely  three  minutes  there  came  the 
change.  The  viscous  contents  of  the  vials  were 
flowing!  There  was  no  doubt  of  it — the  stiff  and 
gummy  substance  had  become  liquid! 

At  once  there  came  a  subdued  ecstatic  outbreak; 
it  was  really  a  thrilling  moment;  the  huge  building 
was  filled  with  a  curious  murmurous  sound  of 
mingled  gasps  and  cries. 

I  do  not  pretend  to  explain  what  had  happened. 
There  had  apparently  been  complete  openness. 
The  canon  was  an  old  man  of  particularly  fine 
countenance.  The  recurrent  event  had  taken  place, 
for  there  was  the  reddish  liquid.  No  wonder  it  is 
sincerely  looked  upon  as  a  miracle,  and  I  do  not 
know  what  to  suggest  in  other  explanation  except 
that  possibly  it  was  the  result  of  bodily  heat,  from 
the  hands,  or  that  the  constant  motion,  the  tipping 
and  turning,  may  have  had  something  to  do  with  it. 
I  watched  it  closely  and  did  not  see  why  it  occurred. 
But  it  did. 

[282] 


An  Unfamiliar  Naples 

The  canon,  his  face  aglow  with  happiness,  walked 
back  and  forth,  holding  the  receptacle  in  plain  sight 
with  its  liquid,  and  a  peripatetic  attendant  kept  a 
lighted  candle  held  constantly  behind  it  so  that 
none  should  be  unable  to  see  it  or  feel  a  doubt. 

Then  the  canon  went  from  one  to  another  along 
the  altar  rail,  and  gently  touched  each  man's  fore- 
head with  the  holder  and  presented  it  to  the  lips  to 
be  kissed.  And  one  cannot,  in  such  a  case,  think  of 
the  germs  of  the  centuries! 

Each,  as  he  kissed,  arose  and  quietly  stepped  to  one 
side,  and  the  vacated  places  were  taken  by  priests 
and  church  dignitaries  within  the  chancel  rail. 

And  the  ceremony  was  not  yet  over.  A  passage- 
way was  somehow  cleared  back  though  the  center 
of  the  cathedral — this  probably  being  made  pos- 
sible by  some  of  the  throng  beginning  to  leave — and 
along  each  side  of  the  passage  there  formed  a  line 
of  clerics,  dressed  in  black  and  white  and  standing 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  holding  great,  thick,  tall 
candles  that  stood  on  the  floor  and  burned,  in 
lambent  yellow,  at  the  height  of  their  heads.  It 
made  an  immensely  impressive  scene,  and  down 
this  torch-lined  passage  the  silver  statue  was  slowly 
borne,  with  people  eagerly  holding  out  their  hands 
as  toward  one  they  loved  and  from  whom  they 
expected  benefits,  and  some  spoke  to  the  saint  as  if 
he  were  alive.  And  everywhere  were  happy  faces 
because  the  liquefaction  had  taken  place  so  soon. 

[283] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

The  procession  turned  into  the  large  chapel  of 
San  Gennaro,  and  through  its  great  brazen  gates 
toward  where  a  garden  of  silver  flowers  blossomed 
on  the  solid  silver  altar.  Here  another  priest  took 
the  relic  and  allowed  relays  of  people  to  kiss  it, 
while  some  old  women  called  out,  weirdly  and  ex- 
citedly, at  the  statue  itself;  these  women  being 
reputed  to  be  of  the  family  of  Saint  Januarius 
(celibacy  not  being  called  for  in  his  day),  who  for 
centuries  have  held  and  exercised  the  prescriptive 
family  right  of  calling  out  at  him  in  angry  tones! 

I  left  the  benignant  saint,  all  aglow  with  the 
sheen  and  sparkle  of  his  jewels,  and  the  eager  de- 
votees, and  the  marvel  and  wonder  of  it  all,  and 
walked  slowly  back  through  the  ancient  streets,  to 
the  district  of  hotels,  where  every  one  was  asleep. 


XIX.    ALONG   THE    BRENTA:    ONCE   A 
HIGHWAY    FOR    THE    WORLD 

T  came  to  me  one  day,   in 
Venice,  that  there  was  a  re- 
gion   near   by,    entirely   neg- 
lected by  travelers,  which  had 
once  been  known  of  all 
the  world  and  had  pos- 
sessed so  much  of  beauty 
and  interest  that  there 
must  still  be  much  that 
was     eminently     worth 
_  ^  while  to  see;  and  so  I 

sought   out   this    region 

and  was  vastly  rewarded  for  the  small  degree  of 
trouble  that  was  involved. 

At  the  very  edge  of  Venice  is  a  long  and  once 
glorious  line  of  villas  where  the  old  Venetians  revelled 
in  splendor;  villas  built  upon  the  mainland,  along  the 
course  of  the  river  Brenta;  villas  before  whose  doors 
ran  the  landway  and  waterway,  the  double  high- 
way, between  Padua  and  Venice,  which  for  many 
centuries  was  the  main  approach  to  the  splendid 
city  of  the  sea.  Venice  the  Beautiful,  as  a  writer 
quaintly  expressed  it,  stood  beside  the  domes  of 

[285] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

St.  Mark,  but  the  jewelled  train  of  her  mantle 
stretched  along  the  shores  of  the  Brenta. 

The  villas,  near  to  Venice  though  they  are,  and 
readily  accessible,  are  now  seen  by  few,  for  the 
coming  of  the  railroad,  over  sixty  years  ago,  made 
a  new  approach  to  the  city,  and  visitors  long  ago 
forgot  their  existence.  And  Venice  herself  had 
first  forgotten  them.  For,  when  the  power  of  the 
city  dwindled  and  her  riches  passed  away,  there 
came  to  an  end  the  golden-robed  and  silken-shod 
luxury  that  had  loved  to  display  itself  in  this  sub- 
urban life.  Many  of  the  villas  fell  long  ago  forlornly 
irito  ruin,  with  gardens  wrecked  and  balconies  de- 
molished, and  halls  and  ceilings  tottering  to  a  fall. 
Others  vanished  utterly.  Still  others,  their  fair 
radiance  departed,  and  now  shabby  and  defaced, 
give  corners  of  their  spaciousness  to  peasants,  who 
thus  sit  in  the  seats  of  the  mighty.  Only  a  few  of  the 
villas  are  well  maintained:  one,  literally  a  palace, 
because  the  government  preserves  it  as  a  national 
monument,  and  two  or  three  because  they  are  in 
the  hands  of  rich  and  liberal  owners. 

It  is  not  only  that  the  poor  live  in  some  of  the 
ancient  abodes  of  grandeur.  The  poor  the  Italian 
has  always  with  him,  and  in  abundance;  and  so  here, 
along  the  Brenta,  there  are  not  only  ruined  homes 
of  the  proud,  but  also  little  villages  of  the  humble. 
The  neglected  mansions  would  not  be  nearly  so  full 
of  interest,  nearly  so  picturesque,  were  it  not  for 

[286] 


Along  the  Brenta 

the  accompanying  interest  and  picturesqueness  of 
peasant  and  village  life.  For  a  gossipy,  gladsome, 
gesticulative  folk  are  these,  and  though  poor  enough 
if  measured  by  the  standard  of  money,  rich  in  con- 
tent and  happiness. 

For  hundreds  of  years  the  Brenta  was  glorious, 
but  perhaps  the  sixteenth  century  may  be  set  down 
as,  upon  the  whole,  the  period  of  greatest  splendor. 

Often  and  often  has  the  Brenta  been  the  text  for 
enthusiasms.  The  cultured  Evelyn  wrote,  in  his 
famous  diary,  of  the  river  so  deliciously  adorned 
with  villas  and  gardens.  Two  hundred  years  later 
Disraeli  wrote  of  the  number,  variety,  and  splendor 
of  the  houses,  which  even  in  his  day  had  fallen  into 
the  sere,  the  yellow  leaf.  D'Annunzio  has  seized 
upon  the  poetry  and  inspiration  in  these  melan- 
choly remains  of  former  magnificence.  And  Mrs. 
Wharton  gives  the  heroine  of  a  powerful  short  story, 
set  in  the  Italy  of  the  past,  a  triumphant  season  on 
the  Brenta,  in  a  palace  of  myriad  glories. 

Building  sumptuous  houses  on  the  mainland 
followed  as  a  consequence  of  landward  conquests 
and  acquisitions.  And,  indeed,  it  was  the  realiza- 
tion of  landward  ambitions  that  marked  the  begin- 
ning of  the  end  of  Venetian  power.  The  discovery 
of  a  route  around  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  is  gener- 
ally set  down  as  the  reason  for  decline,  but  it  would 
not  have  been  of  potency  had  not  the  city  been  al- 
ready weakened  by  her  landward  successes.  She 

[287] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

conquered  Belluno  and  she  conquered  Padua,  and 
her  warriors  loved  to  ride  on  horses  as  well  as  on 
vessels  of  war  and  gondolas. 

And  it  would  really  seem — to  take  the  ultimate 
step  in  this  inquiry  of  cause  and  effect — as  if  the 
Venetian  love  for  horses  lay  at  the  root  of  their 
desire  to  be  masters  of  land.  For  Venice  is  an  ab- 
solutely horseless  city.  On  foot  or  by  water  must 
its  people  go.  And  hence  there  came  into  operation 
the  yearning,  deep-based  in  human  nature,  for  what 
is  tantalizingly  attractive  and  at  the  same  time  at- 
tainable only  with  difficulty.  The  Venetians  put 
themselves  on  horseback  and,  although  infinitely 
distant  from  beggarhood,  went  the  proverbial  way. 
The  best  of  all  the  statues  of  Venice  is  an  equestrian : 
that  of  Colleoni,  by  Verrocchio,  an  admirable  replica 
of  which  has  been  placed  in  the  Metropolitan  Mu- 
seum of  Art  in  New  York.  And  the  huge-columned 
church,  that  of  Saints  Giovanni  and  Paolo,  whose 
portal  is  guarded  by  this  horsebacked  effigy,  bears 
within  it  stately  monuments  of  old-time  doges,  be- 
striding caparisoned  steeds.  In  the  sombrely  housed 
libraries  of  Venice  are  ancient  prints  showing  Brenta 
villas  in  their  glory,  and  in  front  of  the  villas  the 
artists  loved  to  place  cavaliers  upon  curvetting 
horses.  For  these  cavaliers,  crossing  the  lagoon 
from  the  city,  loved  to  gallop  along  the  road  to 
Padua,  past  barges  filled  with  travellers  intent  on 
reaching  the  wonderful  city. 

[288] 


Along  the  Brenta 

For  centuries  the  Brenta  was  fiercely  fought  for 
by  Padua  and  Venice.  For  centuries  its  stream  has 
been  confined  as  a  canal,  for  its  uncontrolled  meander- 
ings  led  it  changefully  across  the  plain  between  the 
rival  cities.  For  centuries  it  was  a  great  artery  of 
commerce,  and  the  interests  of  Padua  and  Venice 
were  so  diverse  as  to  its  course  that  battles  were 
fought  for  the  mere  object  of  demolishing  an  old 
dike  or  constructing  a  new  one.  Not  until  Padua 
itself  was  taken  and  held  by  Venice  were  bounds 
finally  set  to  the  river,  and  then,  at  its  mouth,  was 
set  a  contrivance  of  pulleys  and  inclined  planes, 
long  since  vanished,  for  the  lifting  of  river  craft  over 
the  bar  which  was  always  forming.  The  Brenta 
firmly  secured,  the  advantages  of  its  banks  as  a 
dwelling-place  for  wealthy  Venetians  were  seen;  and 
patrician  after  patrician  chose  his  locality  and  his 
stately  pleasure  dome  decreed. 

"Venice,"  naively  wrote  dear  old  Froissart,  five 
and  a  half  centuries  ago,  "  is  one  of  the  dearest  towns 
in  the  world  for  strangers."  He  knew  Italy  and  its 
cities,  his  principal  visit  to  that  country  having  been 
to  attend,  as  a  guest,  a  princely  wedding,  at  which 
—so  runs  the  delightful  old  tale — two  of  his  fellow 
guests  were  Chaucer  and  Petrarch.  Froissart  did  not 
set  down  that  Venice  was  a  town  of  extravagant 
citizens  as  well  as  a  town  expensive  for  strangers, 
for  he  doubtless  took  it  for  granted  that  the  citizens' 
extravagance  was  a  matter  of  common  knowledge. 

[289] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

And  it  was  but  a  very  few  years  after  he  wrote 
that  the  city  sought  a  new  outlet  for  luxurious 
expenditure  by  beginning  this  expansion  along  the 
Brenta. 

Leaving  Venice,  leaving  the  Piazza  of  St.  Mark  and 
the  Doge's  Palace,  and  setting  forth  for  the  forgotten 
villas  and  the  forgotten  highway  that  was  so  long  a 
highway  for  the  world,  you  do  not  turn  down  the 
familiar  Grand  Canal,  but  into  the  broad  and  for- 
gotten Giudecca,  where  you  pass  big  gondolas,  two- 
rowered,  heavy  laden  with  great  logs  that  stretch 
out  on  either  side  with  centipedal  effect.  You  pass 
boats  with  sails  of  yellow  and  hulls  of  red  and 
brown.  And  you  pass  merchant  ships  at  anchor 
that  have  come  from  distant  ports  of  the  world. 

And  now  the  marvellous  city  is  behind  you,  and 
you  are  sailing  across  a  broad  and  shimmering 
lagoon,  and  you  pass  an  island  with  the  delightful 
name  of  St.  George  in  the  Seaweed,  and  you  see  the 
darkened  surface  and  the  reed-like  wavings  that 
tell  that  the  island  is  well  named.  Of  note,  this 
island,  in  the  ancient  days,  though  no  one  ever 
visits  it  now;  for,  midway  between  mainland  and 
city,  it  was  where  ambassadors  and  other  guests  of 
state  were  often  received.  The  island  was  long  the 
site  of  a  great  churchly  establishment,  and  monks 
looked  out  upon  a  busy  world  from  what  is  now  a 
crumbled  red  pile  of  masonry;  and,  glancing  at  it 
as  the  boat  carries  you  by,  you  notice  that  a  few 

[290! 


Along  the  Brenta 

soldiers  militant  have  replaced  the  soldiers  of  the 
cross. 

Farther  you  go,  across  the  shallow  waters  of  the 
lagoon;  and  soon  you  are  nearing  a  reedy  and  melan- 
choly shore,  where  a  little  patch  of  tile  and  plaster, 
red  and  yellow,  marks  ancient  Fusina,  at  the  Bren- 
ta's  mouth. 

Following  the  river  inland,  there  is  a  great  stretch 
of  level  country,  endlessly  ditched  and  irrigated. 
Here  and  there  the  thatched  house  of  a  peasant, 
here  and  there  a  stooping  line  of  toilers  in  the 
fields;  women  and  men  in  clothing  of  sun-mellowed 
charm;  and  soon,  above  the  vine-grown  levels  and 
the  glimmering  canals,  a  spacious  building  comes  in 
view. 

A  palace,  this;  but  its  glory  has  departed,  its 
princely  tenants  have  gone.  It  is  fronted  by  a  row 
of  mighty  columns,  but  below  them  the  carefully 
wrought  work  of  the  artisan  has  fallen  away  in  ruin, 
and  of  the  noble  stairways,  which  formed  the  outer 
approach,  one  has  altogether  vanished  and  the 
other  has  lost  its  classic  balustrade  and  stands  in 
bare  denudedness.  This  palace,  one  of  the  master- 
pieces of  Palladio,  was  built  for  two  brothers  of  the 
house  of  Foscari;  and  the  name  by  which  it  is  known 
— Malcontenta — is  the  survival  of  the  dark  story  of 
a  woman  who  loved  not  wisely  but  too  well,  and 
here  ate  out  her  heart  in  proud  retirement. 

The  palace  is  now  naked  and  bleak,  and  on  either 

[291] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

side  are  apartments  exactly  alike:  one  set  of  rooms 
for  one  Foscari  brother  and  one  for  the  other,  with 
a  cross-shaped  audience-hall  between  for  the  com- 
mon use  of  both. 

There  are  fireplaces  of  pink  marble,  and  vaulted 
ceilings,  and  in  the  central  hall  there  are  frescoed 
Muses  and  Arts,  that,  regardless  of  their  faded 
beauty,  look  down  with  a  smile  or  with  grave  regard 
at  the  visitor  whose  echoing  footsteps  disturb  their 
solitude,  even  as  they  looked  on  the  gay  throngs  of 
vanished  time. 

And  in  another  room,  long  since  vandalized  by 
whitewash,  the  yellow  covering  has  flaked  away 
just  enough  to  show  a  lovely  woman,  in  the  splendid 
apparel  of  the  time  of  Venetian  glory.  She  is  painted 
on  the  wall,  with  her  foot  on  the  level  of  the  floor, 
and  gives  a  curious  impression  of  standing  within 
the  room.  A  haughty  and  enigmatical  smile  is  on 
her  lips,  and  you  like  to  believe  the  legend  of  the 
countryside  that  this  woman,  decked  with  pearls  and 
apparelled  in  silk  and  lace,  is  the  one  whose  history 
gave  the  name  of  Malcontenta. 

Push  aside  the  shutters  from  a  window  whose 
leaded  glass  has  long  since  vanished,  and  there  is  a 
sweet  and  lovely  view.  There  are  the  interminable 
stretches,  crowded  thick  with  luscious  growth;  there, 
to  the  northward,  rises  the  Alpine  line;  there  is  the 
lagoon,  on  whose  farther  side  lies  Venice,  with  the 
sun  glistening  on  towers  and  domes. 

[292] 


Along  the  Brenta 

A  red-sailed,  black-hulled  barge  comes  slowly  up 
the  Brenta;  a  painted  ship  on  water  painted  mar- 
vellously green;  and  one's  mind  goes  back  to  the 
glory  of  the  past,  and  to  that  time  in  the  sixteenth 
century  when,  with  mighty  pomp  and  circumstance, 
Henry  the  Third  of  France  came  to  this  house,  ac- 
companied from  Venice  by  senators  and  patricians 
in  barges  rowed  by  slaves. 

With  stairs  and  vaultings  of  solid  stone,  and  roof 
and  floors  of  tile,  the  house  defies  the  desolation  of 
the  centuries.  But  there  are  lichens  and  mosses  on 
the  walls;  latticed  windows  are  wrecked;  scrolls 
and  ornaments  and  carving  are  defaced.  And  in  a 
perspective  avenue  of  trees  I  saw  an  incongruous 
descendant  of  the  past:  a  strutting  peacock  with  tail 
gloriously  outspread,  owned  by  the  peasants  who 
live  in  a  corner  of  the  palace  and  who  cook  their 
dinner  of  herbs  in  an  enormous  Palladian  fireplace 
with  carved  lion's  feet  and  fluted  pillars  of  stone. 

Beyond  Malcontenta  are  willow  trees  and  orch- 
ards, and  meadows  rich  in  grass,  and  endless  vine- 
yards, and  long  vines  garlanded  between  pollarded 
mulberries;  and  here  and  there  a  great  gate  of 
wrought  iron  tells  where  a  villa  stood,  or  at  a  cottage 
door  stands  a  shattered  pillar,  carried  there  long  ago 
from  the  wreck  of  a  noble  house. 

Great  numbers  of  statues  are  still  to  be  seen. 
At  many  of  the  villas  the  ancient  statues  were  long 
since  destroyed  or  carried  away,  and  empty  pedes- 

[293] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

tals  alone  remain;  but  a  host  of  figures  still,  stand 
grouped  in  gardens  or  extend  along  old  avenues. 
Smiling  or  dancing,  posing  in  stateliness,  or  eternally 
pouring  libations — gods  and  goddesses,  nymphs  and 
heroes,  loves  and  graces,  marred,  broken,  yellowed, 
lichened — they  are  doing  patiently  on  their  pedes- 
tals for  the  peasants  what  in  old  days  they  did  for 
patricians;  and  in  all  this  is  a  grim  and  theatrical 
impressiveness,  as  of  broken-down  actors  and  actresses 
representing  the  glories  of  the  olden  time. 

Numbers  of  the  villas  have  not  only  the  charm  of 
general  association  with  the  pride  of  former  days,  but 
have  definite  legends  or  history  clinging  about  the 
great  rooms  and  the  window-seats  and  the  charming 
alcoves.  There  are  tiny  canals  running  up  to  private 
landing-places,  and  loggias  from  which  the  proces- 
sion of  boats  and  horses  was  watched  by  languid 
ladies  and  from  which  the  snowy  Alps  are  seen, 
gleaming  austere  and  cold  above  the  steaming 
plain. 

One  house,  not  far  from  Malcontenta,  is  honored 
because  it  stands  upon  the  site  of  an  earlier  one 
which  Dante  for  a  time  occupied.  Dante  wrote  of 
the  Brenta,  too,  but  the  time  of  his  residence  there 
was  before  the  era  of  Venetian  occupancy. 

One  must  look  heedfully  if  he  would  see  every 
one  of  the  still  existent  villas,  for  there  are  defaced 
and  cheaply  stuccoed  houses  which  might  hastily 
be  passed  by  without  interest,  but  which  are  shown 

[294] 


IN  A  PALACE  or  THE  BRENTA:  AT  STRA 


Unvisited 

tals  alone  rem 
grouped  in  gardens 

>ngor  dan 
pouring  lib; 
h^ro 


Old  Europe 

md 


r  days,  but 
about 

to  pri 
:h  the  pr< 

d  by  Ian 

ling 


whic 

the  Brenta 

One  mus 


'iere 


ced 


Along  the  Brenta 

in  the  ancient  prints  as  the  villas  of  this  or  that 
great  family  whose  name  is  in  the  Golden  Book. 
The  Italians  love  to  stucco  any  building,  old  or  new; 
and,  so  far  as  apparent  age  is  concerned,  a  touch  of 
stucco  makes  all  buildings  kin. 

Less  interesting,  except  as  illustrative  of  human 
nature,  are  the  few  garish  houses,  comparatively 
modern,  put  up  by  pretentious  folk  who  would  fain 
have  the  appearance  of  living  here  as  did  the  rich 
and  the  powerful;  but  of  real  interest  are  the  simple 
houses  of  the  frankly  humble.  And  the  villages  and 
those  who  live  in  them  have  a  peculiar  right  to  at- 
tention, because  some  of  these  towns  are  very,  very 
ancient,  having  authentic  histories  running  back  for 
many  hundreds  of  years,  and  because  numbers  of 
the  village  folk  are  doubtless  of  ancestry  antedating 
the  period  of  the  glory  of  Venice. 

Tradition  has  it  that  near  one  of  these  towns  one 
of  the  battles  between  Venice  and  Padua  took  place, 
and  that  the  Venetians  won  through  setting  free 
large  numbers  of  bees,  who  flew  at  the  Paduans, 
and,  slipping  under  their  visors,  stung  them  into 
retreat. 

The  humble  Brenta  dwellers  are  a  cheerful  and 
credulous  folk.  They  love  music,  they  love  games, 
they  love  color,  they  love  the  dance.  I  remember 
that  the  little  Dutch  children  of  Maarken  all  seemed 
men  and  women;  but  the  men  and  women  of  the 
Brenta  all  seem  children,  and  all  happy  ones. 

[295] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

Even  the  grimness  of  certain  of  their  beliefs  does 
not  give  them  gloominess.  They  know  that  three 
knockings  in  the  night  can  come  only  from  the 
Angel  of  Death — but  (crossing  themselves)  we  ought 
not  to  worry,  for  all  of  us  must  die.  They  know  that 
to  spill  olive  oil  or  milk  brings  bad  luck,  but  they 
also  know  (praise  this  or  that  Italian  saint!)  that 
to  spill  wine  means  a  marriage.  To  dream  of  a  tooth 
drawn  out  means  death;  but  to  find  a  horseshoe  or  a 
muleshoe  means  good  luck,  and  to  find  a  coin  with  a 
hole  in  it  insures  very  good  luck,  and,  on  the  whole, 
there  is  more  good  than  evil  in  the  world,  and  so  let 
us  eat  and  drink  and  be  merry,  for,  in  spite  of  dreams 
prognostic,  to-morrow  we  live! 

I  have  heard  Italians  of  more  favored  regions 
deplore  the  malaria  of  the  Brenta,  and  say,  "The 
people  are  yellow  of  face."  But  the  Brenta  folk  do 
not  permit  even  malaria  to  disturb  them.  The  men 
contend  endlessly  at  bowls,  or  perhaps,  in  the  even- 
ing, they  eagerly  play  with  queer  Italian  cards,  or 
get  out  their  checkers  and  their  chess;  their  chess 
permitting  odd  moves  with  the  pawns,  and  their 
checkers  having  the  rule  that  a  king  is  immune 
from  capture  except  by  another  king,  and  that  (to 
border  on  a  Hibernianism)  these  are  not  kings  at 
all,  but  queens. 

Even  in  the  literature  read  by  the  Brentaside 
there  is  found  a  certain  amusement;  for  I  have  seen 
one  man  reading  UAsino  and  another  //  Mulo  and 

[296] 


Along  the  Brenta 

another  Sigaretta.  Incidentally,  it  reminded  me  of 
having  heard,  in  America,  that  Italian  humor  is  far 
beyond  our  own  in  purity,  delicacy,  cleverness,  and 
charm. 

The  great  villas,  through  the  limitless  extrava- 
gance of  their  building,  their  out-fitting  and  main- 
tenance, were  the  cause  of  the  breaking  of  many  a 
fortune,  and  thus  of  the  subsequent  desertion  and 
decay  of  the  buildings.  That  several  were  built  by 
Palladio  recalls  the  story  that,  in  revenge  for  being 
refused  admittance  into  the  order  of  nobility,  he 
deliberately  set  himself  to  ruin  Italian  nobles  through 
the  expense  that  his  building  plans  entailed.  The 
nobles  of  this  part  of  Italy,  however,  were  themselves 
not  backward  in  working  for  their  own  ruin;  like  the 
one  who  loved  to  skip  gold  pieces,  sequins,  like 
pebbles,  along  the  surface  of  the  Brenta,  or  the  one 
who  was  in  the  pleasant  habit  of  throwing  the  fragile 
table  service  out  of  window  to  thrill  his  guests. 

At  one  ruined  villa,  where  I  found  pigeons  roost- 
ing in  the  bare  and  desolate  entrance  hall,  the  peas- 
ant who  opened  doors  and  gates  told  me,  with  deep 
meaning  in  his  tone,  as  he  showed  me  into  the  garden, 
that  oleanders  once  grew  there,  but  had  vanished;  it 
being  an  ancient  Italian  superstition  that  with  the 
decay  of  oleanders  begins  the  decay  of  the  fortunes 
of  a  house. 

What  is  known  as  the  villa  of  Valmarano,  near  the 
town  of  Mira  Porte,  is  a  splendid  example  of  the 

[297] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

glorious  extravagance  of  the  past.  I  reached  there, 
from  my  last  stopping-place,  by  driving  beside  a 
Brenta  man  in  a  tiny  cart  drawn  by  a  pony  no 
bigger  than  a  dog,  and  I  crossed  the  stream  with 
another  Brenta  man  in  a  water-logged  and  leaky 
dugout,  which  he  looked  at  in  lengthy  dubitation 
before  deciding  that  it  would  do,  and  which  absurdly 
sank  just  as  we  reached  the  farther  side. 

This  so-called  villa  consists  of  two  palaces  placed 
where  the  river,  curving,  gives  a  charming  view. 
They  are  precisely  similar,  and  each  stretches  back 
in  a  succession  of  lofty  rooms.  But  to  say  this  is 
to  say  only  part;  for  in  the  space  between  these  two 
palaces  there  once  stood  a  still  grander  structure, 
every  vestige  of  which  has  gone;  a  palace  of  such 
noble  size  that  these  two  served  fittingly  as  ap- 
panages. And  all  these  united  to  make  the  home 
of  a  single  patrician! 

And  these  two  appanages  stand  in  desolation. 
They  have  long  and  stately  colonnades,  and  they 
show  pillared  vistas  of  great  impressiveness,  but 
some  of  the  rooms  are  heaped  with  grain,  others 
are  littered  with  wine-presses  and  carts,  in  others 
the  plaster  has  fallen  in  great  pieces;  and  yet,  amid 
this  wreck  of  past  glory,  lovely  goddesses,  whose 
frescoed  faces  are  still  full  of  beauty  and  charm, 
bravely  smile  as  if  to  assert  that  the  smile  of  woman 
is  superior  to  ruin  and  may  even  recall  the  tender 
grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead. 

[298] 


Along  the  Brenta 

And  the  reflection  comes,  that  while  nations  were 
quarreling,  and  armies  clashing,  artists  and  sculp- 
tors kept  calmly  at  their  work.  Dante  wrote  of  the 
Brenta,  and  Veronese  painted  ceilings,  Palladio 
erected  homes  there,  and  Tintoretto  made  pictures 
for  their  walls,  heedless  of  affairs  of  peace  or  war. 

To  drive  beside  the  river,  along  the  hard  firm 
roads  and  past  the  endless  stone  road-posts,  puts 
one  vividly  in  touch  with  the  past,  and  it  is  even 
more  fascinating  to  go  slowly  up  the  stream  by 
boat — for  there  are  boats,  for  freight,  with  red  and 
ochre  sails;  there  are  boats  drawn  by  horses  or  drawn 
by  men;  there  are  boats  with  long  ropes  running 
quaintly,  as  of  old,  from  the  stern  to  the  top  of  the 
mast  and  thence  to  the  towing-power  on  shore;  and 
there  are  boats  propelled  by  gondoliers. 

There  are  tall  poplars  which  send  their  shadows 
far  down  into  the  water.  There  are  pretty  peasant 
girls  standing  under  the  escutcheons  of  nobility. 
Ox  teams  swing  down  ancient  avenues.  There  is  a 
shipyard,  where  barges  have  for  centuries  been 
launched  and  where  a  handful  of  men  still  work 
at  hull  and  keel.  There  are  long  white  roads.  There 
are  ditches,  thick  padded  with  water-lilies  and  with 
yellow  primroses  on  their  banks.  There  are  ancient 
plane  trees  long  since  trimmed  to  fan-shaped  flatness 
and  now  grown  distorted  and  grotesque.  There  are 
old  stone  wells. 

It  is  of  especial  interest  to  notice  how  different  is 

[299] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

the  architecture  from  any  in  Venice.  It  might  have 
been  expected  that  the  architects  would  follow 
familiar  Venetian  forms,  but  instead  they  put  up  a 
series  of  houses  of  an  entirely  different  character. 

The  possession  of  this  river  and  of  Padua  meant 
much  to  the  Venetians.  Not  only  did  it  solve  ques- 
tions of  health  and  commerce,  and  give  them  indis- 
putably a  line  of  traffic;  not  only  did  it  give  the 
longed-for  chance  for  rural  homes  and  gardens  for 
their  children's  play;  but  it  also  gave  them  the 
source  of  supply  of  a  strong  dark  lime  which  would 
resist  the  action  of  salt  water  and  sea  air.  It  was  in 
the  fifteenth  century  that  Padua  was  seized;  had  it 
been  earlier,  so  you  are  told,  the  Campanile  of  St. 
Mark's  would  not  have  fallen,  for  it  would  have 
been  built  with  Paduan  lime. 

At  no  great  distance  above  Valmarano  is  a  fine 
villa,  yellow-fronted  and  of  happy  aspect;  with 
white  stone  lions  pawing  armorial  bearings  at  the 
entrance  and  little  lions  crouched  captivatingly 
above.  It  looks  like  one  of  the  charming  modern 
Florentine  villas  of  to-day,  so  fresh  and  clean  it  is. 
Yet  it  is  a  house  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  was 
then  inhabited  by  a  Contarini,  Procurator  of  St. 
Mark's,  and  was  given  a  visit  by  a  foreign  king,  who, 
passing  by,  was  so  taken  with  the  charm  of  its  ap- 
pearance that  he  stopped  his  barge  and  landed 
there. 

Noble  old  apartments  are  those  in  this  favored 

[300] 


Along  the  Brenta 

Contarini  villa;  but  the  ancient  furnishings  and 
frescoes  passed  with  the  passing  of  ancient  owner- 
ship, the  finest  of  the  wall  decorations  having  been 
taken  long  since  to  Paris.  In  front  of  the  villa  there 
is  a  mighty  line  of  gnarled  trees,  the  trunks  of  which 
are  green  with  moss.  The  immediate  surroundings 
were  in  the  past  particularly  pleasing,  although  now 
all  is  changed. 

Here  and  there,  along  the  line  of  the  Brenta, 
there  are  still  the  remains  of  ancient  gardens;  and 
an  ancient  and  overgrown  and  high-walled  garden 
must  needs  be  felicitous,  especially  when  still  shaded 
by  the  cypress  and  the  ilex,  and  when  untrimmed 
shrubbery  has  grown  into  mysterious  thickets,  with 
here  and  there  neglected  wall-flowers  growing  from 
wall  crevices  where  they  have  found  refuge,  and 
here  and  there  a  tangle  of  rosemary  hanging  like 
an  old  man's  beard.  And  as  one  walks  through 
such  a  deserted  garden  a  pungent  and  fascinating 
odor  arises  from  the  gray-green  artemisia  crushed 
underfoot,  and  mingles  with  the  haunting  odor  of 
the  bay.  And  now  and  then  one  still  finds  the 
great  terra-cotta  pots,  three  feet  or  so  across,  that 
held  oleanders  or  orange  trees. 

One  sees  along  the  Brenta  that  color  is  a  poor 
man's  luxury.  A  red-capped  man  ploughs  a  brown 
field  with  white  oxen.  From  the  blue-shuttered 
window  of  a  gray  house  a  green-gowned  woman 
lowers  a  tiny  basket  for  the  casual  letter  or  the  morn- 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

ing's  milk.  A  black-hatted  priest  flourishes  a  big 
blue  handkerchief.  Red-skirted,  purple-skirted, 
maroon-waisted  girls  sing  as  they  paddle,  washing 
by  the  waterside.  A  green-shirted  man  hammers 
a  tawny  dried  fish  on  a  gray  stone  post  with  a  yellow 
mallet.  White  ducks  go  swimming  on  green  water 
in  front  of  a  red-tiled  house.  It  was  not  an  Italian 
who  said  that  to  add  another  hue  unto  the  rainbow 
is  wasteful  and  ridiculous  excess. 

A  certain  spirit  of  independence  among  the 
peasantry  comes  largely,  I  think,  from  their  lifelong 
familiarity  with  palaces  and  coats-of-arms  in  a  state 
of  ruin.  It  comes,  too,  from  the  simple  character  of 
their  local  government.  Each  man  who  pays  taxes 
of  not  less  than  ten  lire — two  dollars — a  year  is  priv- 
ileged to  vote  for  member  of  the  council,  and  each 
town  council  elects  the  sindaco  or  mayor.  If  in  a 
multitude  of  councillors  there  is  wisdom,  wisdom 
should  be  rife  here,  for  a  single  small  town  is  likely 
to  have  as  many  as  thirty,  who  serve  without  pay, 
and  come  together  twice  a  year  unless  called  for 
some  special  meeting  in  addition.  "The  Brenta  is  a 
country  of  gold!"  said  a  councillor  to  me,  proudly, 
one  day;  but  he  did  not  mean  this  in  a  material  sense. 

The  old  woman  who  sells  you — for  one  cent — a 
very  holy  picture,  in  very  gaudy  colors,  has  her 
feelings  really  hurt  if  you  give  her  the  desired  wealth 
and  then  don't  care  to  take  the  picture,  for  she  fears 
you  will  think  her  a  beggar.  Yes;  and  this  in  Italy! 

[302] 


Along  the  Brenta 

Most  of  the  poorer  folk  never  get  so  far  as  even  to 
visit  near-by  Venice.  "Why  should  we  go?  We  do 
not  care  for  the  city.  We  are  tillers  of  the  soil," 
they  will  say. 

But  always  from  contemplation  of  the  people, 
no  matter  how  simple-hearted  and  interesting,  and 
of  the  villages,  no  matter  how  ancient  in  history  and 
in  legend,  one  comes  back  with  renewed  and  deeper 
interest  to  the  palaces  and  the  villas. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  of  the  villas  is  that  of 
the  ancient  family  of  the  Foscarini,  but  as  you  ap- 
proach it,  boating  up  the  placid  stream,  you  see  but 
a  building  of  plain  and  almost  commonplace  aspect, 
with  some  shabby  greenery  peeping  over  the  wall 
behind  it.  It  has  changed  since  the  days  of  the 
past,  when  it  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
charming  villas  of  the  Brenta. 

This  is  the  Brenta  villa  in  which  Byron  for  so  many 
years  lived,  and  in  connection  with  his  life  here  there 
are  tales  of  his  love  for  an  imperious  peasant  beauty, 
a  Brenta  girl,  who  was  long  an  important  factor  in 
his  life. 

A  school  for  peasant  children  occupies  some  of  the 
rooms  of  this  villa,  and  a  maker  of  soap  uses  the 
remainder — but  there  is  much  in  the  history  of  the 
building  which  soap  cannot  wash  away,  and  there  is 
more  to  learn  from  it  than  will  be  taught  to  the 
black-eyed  children  whose  knives  serrate  the  edges 
of  the  simple  desks  and  forms.  For  there  are  more 

[303] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

than  Byronic  associations;  the  villa  having  been 
associated  with  one  of  the  grimmest  of  Venetian 
tragedies,  that  of  the  love  of  Antonio  Foscarini  for 
an  Englishwoman,  the  Countess  of  Arundel,  wife  of 
the  Arundel  of  the  Marbles,  Earl  Marshal  of  England. 

The  Countess  had  first  met  Foscarini  when  he  was 
ambassador  at  London;  and  that  he  held  such  a  post 
marks  him  as  a  man  not  only  of  importance,  but  of 
manners  and  presence. 

Some  time  after  Foscarini's  recall  from  London  to 
Venice,  about  1620,  it  was  noticed  that  the  Countess 
of  Arundel  secured  a  villa  on  the  Brenta,  close  be- 
side his;  but  all  prudence  and  conventionality  were 
observed,  and  it  merely  appeared  as  if  she  were  a 
foreigner  who  appreciated  the  fineness  and  beauty 
of  that  riverside  life. 

The  tragedy,  when  it  came,  was  made  to  appear 
the  work  of  an  Italian  enemy,  but  it  can  scarcely 
be  doubted  that  the  absent  Earl  of  Arundel  had 
been  aroused  to  vengeance,  and  that  he  found  means 
to  deal  a  distant  blow. 

One  day  in  1622  the  great  Foscarini  found  himself 
before  the  most  dreaded  tribunal  on  earth,  on  a 
charge  of  treason,  the  ground  for  the  accusation 
being  his  frequent  visits  to  the  English  Countess, 
with  whom  he  was  charged  to  be  plotting  against 
the  interests  of  the  Republic.  It  was  pointed  out 
that  he  was  a  man  who  walked  a  good  deal  by  night, 
and  that  his  steps  had  often  led  him  to  the  home 

[304] 


Along  the  Brenta 

of  the  Countess,  who  was  deemed  an  apparent  enemy 
of  Venice. 

Foscarini  found  his  position  eminently  embarrass- 
ing, for  his  birth  and  his  manliness  prevented  him 
from  offering  such  a  defense  as  would  put  a  different 
face  on  the  matter.  The  end,  for  him,  came  swiftly. 
The  Ten  had  heard  him  in  secret,  but  at  least  they 
rewarded  him  openly,  for  one  morning  his  dead 
body  was  found  dangling  by  the  foot  from  the 
public  gallows. 

The  English  ambassador  at  Venice,  deeply  im- 
pressed by  all  this,  sent  warning  to  the  Countess  to 
escape;  but  escape  was  the  last  thing  in  her  thoughts! 
Hers  was  not  the  first  case  nor  the  last  in  which  guilt 
has  been  far  more  bold-faced  than  innocence  could 
possibly  be.  She  went  into  the  city,  and  so  violently 
protested  her  innocence  of  wrong-doing  of  any  sort, 
of  even  wrong  intentions,  that  the  Doge  was  con- 
strained to  issue  a  declaration  that  her  protests 
were  just  and  that  there  had  been  a  terrible  mis- 
take, the  judges  having  acted  on  evidence  given  by  a 
man  who,  under  torture,  had  now  confessed  his 
wickedness. 

The  Doge  also  sent  to  the  irate  Countess  his 
most  contrite  personal  apologies,  and  with  them,  in 
recognition  of  the  eternal  feminine,  a  magnificent 
gift  of  waxworks  and  sweetmeats.  Nor  was  she 
content  with  this.  She  demanded  an  exonerative 
resolution  from  the  Venetian  Senate,  and  it  was 

[305] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

promptly  voted.  She  then  demanded  that  the 
Venetian  ambassador  in  London  inform  her  hus- 
band and  King  James  the  First  that  there  had 
been  a  grave  mistake,  and  that  she  was  an  innocent 
woman  who  had  been  deeply  maligned — which  in- 
formation one  may  fancy  the  Earl  looking  up  from 
the  study  of  his  art  treasures  to  receive,  with  out- 
ward thanks  for  the  care  for  the  reputation  of  his 
wife  and  the  inward  reflection  that  at  least  Fosca- 
rini  was  well  killed. 

The  garden  is  still  as  it  was,  save  that  the  trees 
and  greenery,  long  untrimmed,  have  grown  wild 
and  thicket-like,  and  that  some  of  the  pedestals 
are  now  statueless.  There  is  a  bosky  avenue, 
crossed  with  black  shadows,  where  the  ill-fated  am- 
bassador, little  thinking  that  the  shadows  were 
falling  across  his  life,  was  wont  to  pace.  There  are 
broken  stone  seats  circled  about  in  a  retired  nook; 
and  there  are  violets  and  flowers  of  yellow  and  red, 
such  as  have  been  picked  by  generations  of  lovers 
there. 

From  Fusina  to  Padua  is  a  little  more  than  twenty 
miles,  and  at  the  distance  of  fifteen  miles  one  comes 
to  the  town  of  Stra,  and  near  this  town  stands  a 
palace,  of  great  size  and  cost,  which  was  put  up 
in  final  flaunting  arrogance  when  the  Venetian  Re- 
public was  hastening  toward  its  fall.  It  was  erected 
by  the  family  of  Pisani,  distinguished  for  its  doges 
and  generals,  and  may  be  deemed  almost  modern, 

[306] 


Along  the  Brenta 

for  it  was  begun  and  finished  less  than  two  centuries 
ago.  It  is  a  huge  palace  of  over  two  hundred  rooms — 
and  Italian  rooms  are  always  large! — and  there  was 
no  sparing  of  expense  for  pomp  and  decoration;  and 
whereas  most  of  the  other  palaces  stand  so  near  the 
river  as  to  be  vividly  reflected  in  the  water,  this  at 
Stra  is  set  in  the  midst  of  a  great  park. 

The  palace  has  a  host  of  princely  and  even  royal 
associations,  through  the  titled  folk  who  have  been 
visitors  there.  The  great  Napoleon  made  his  home 
at  this  palace  for  a  time,  and  the  people  still  tell 
of  how  he  reviewed  his  troops  from  a  belvedere 
above  a  great  entranceway  which  opens  into  the 
palace  gardens.  It  is  said,  too,  by  the  country  folk, 
that  the  huge  gates  of  the  central  portal  have  re- 
mained closed  since  the  time  of  Napoleon's  stay,  so 
that  it  might  forever  be  said  that  his  carriage*  was 
the  last  to  be  driven  through.  It  is  by  beliefs  such 
as  these  that  the  real  greatness  of  a  man  may  be 
tested,  even  more  than  by  the  winning  of  battles. 
Only  a  giant  can  print  indentations  in  memory  and 
legend  with  his  lightest  touch. 

Napoleon  so  admired  the  place  that  he  purchased 
it,  and  afterward  gave  it  to  Eugene,  the  son  of  his 
beloved  Josephine.  It  is  now  cared  for  by  the 
Italian  government  as  a  national  monument. 

Continuing  up  the  Brenta,  the  city  of  Padua  is 
reached,  where  the  Venetian  lion  still  stands  in  front 
of  the  palace  wherein  dwelt  the  Venetian  governor, 

[307] 


Unvisited  Places  of  Old  Europe 

and  where  the  famed  university  still  occupies  the 
building  whose  erection  Venice  decreed. 

To  gain  a  deep  and  final  impression  of  this  strange 
Brenta  land  one  should  drive  along  the  waterside, 
on  a  gloomy  day,  as  the  evening  mist  rises  toward  a 
blurred  sky. 

The  pallid,  sallow  houses,  the  slim  campaniles 
standing  above  the  level  plain,  the  red-stockinged 
boys  clattering  in  wooden  shoes,  the  women  draw- 
ing heavy  harrows  across  the  fields,  the  thatched 
roofs  covered  with  thick  moss,  the  wayside  shrines, 
the  eight  white  oxen  yoked  together  to  draw  one 
plough,  the  kneeling  women  washing  clothes  on  the 
river's  brink  and  stooping  to  paddle  them  with  rock 
or  wood — all  seem  part  of  an  unreal  world. 

Villas  wrecked  and  ruined  or  transformed  into 
tenements,  palace  windows  closed  with  wattled 
twigs,  gaunt  facades,  once  graced  with  wings  and 
balustrades  and  pediments,  statues  standing  like 
spirits  of  the  past,  sculptured  heads  grinning  down 
in  sinister  enjoyment,  the  water  softly  whispering 
along  the  shore,  the  sun-dials  which  marked  the 
passage  of  a  time  which  those  patricians  thought 
would  last  forever,  unite  in  telling  of  a  life  that  has 
vanished  as  a  tale  that  is  told. 

And  as  darkness  creeps  on,  and  peasants  and 
fisherfolk,  gregariously  grouped,  trudge  through  this 
land  of  shadows,  shadowily  homeward,  one  thinks 
of  the  old  belief  that,  on  the  vigil  of  All  Souls,  the 

[308] 


Along  the  Brenta 

past  and  gone  Venetians,  shrouded  with  invisibility, 
leave  their  graves  and  wander  to  their  former 
homes  and  seat  themselves  uncannily  by  the  firesides; 
and  you  know  that  none  but  ghosts  could  fittingly 
go  back  to  the  ruined  palaces  of  the  Brenta. 


Index 


Aix-la-Chapelle,  connection  with  the  Neutral  Land,  159,  166,  167 

Alderney,  40,  56 

Alkmaar,  178,  181-184 

Alps  in  winter,  228-272 

Altenberg,  159 

Amboise,  cave  dwellers  at,  107 

Ampezzo,  the  Magnificent  Commune  of,  242 

Amsterdam,  en  fete,  176-178 

Amusements  in  Moresnet,  172 

Andermatt,  sledging  to,  232 

Appenzell,  226 

Approach,  old,  to  Venice,  285 

Arden,  Forest  of,  118-135 

Ardennes,  118,  126,  128 

Ariosto,  120,  122,  131 

Armada,  the,  on  the  Scillys,  37 

Armorel  of  Lyonesse,  36 

Arundel,  Countess  of,  on  the  Brenta,  304 

Austrians  of  '48,  252 

Avalanches:  in  the  Dolomites,  238;  in  the  St.  Gotthard,  231 

Baker  and  sea  water,  61 
Ball  of  the  gardeners,  116 
Balzers,  222 

Banishment  from  Guernsey,  52 
Bargains  "struck,"  182 
Bazeilles,  119 
Beaumont,  68,  70 
Becket,  Thomas  a,  72 
Becquet,  village  of,  72 

Can] 


Index 

Beggars:  how  treated  in  Guernsey,  58;  none  in  Rothenburg,  200 

Birthday  of  ruler:  in  Holland,  177;  in  Luxembourg,  140 

Bishop:  the  lighthouse,  28;  wreck  at,  28 

Blind  King  of  Bohemia,  145 

Blood  of  St.  Januarius,  281 

Boar  hunting,  136 

Boar  of  Ardennes,  122 

Boccaccio  and  Fiammetta,  279 

Bouillon,  castle  and  town  of,  118,  121-125 

Boundary  stones  of  the  Neutral  Land,  169 

Bregenz,  206 

Brenta,  the,  285-309;  humor  of,  296 

Brioche,  no,  112,  114 

British  warships  in  the  Scillys,  19 

Brix,  84,  88,  91,  93,  95,  98 

Bruces  in  Normandy,  83-101;  castle,  96;  village  of  the,  84 

Bunker  Hill,  wounded  landed  from,  37 

Burgomaster:  of  Cortina,  244;  of  Moresnet,  160;  of  Rothenburg,  193 

Buzz  from  French  school,  88 

Byron's  home  on  the  Brenta,  303 

Cadore,  Pieve  di,  finding  a  William  Tell  near,  252 

Cadore,  Republic  of,  243 

Canals:  of  the  Brenta,  289;  of  Holland,  179 

Cap  de  la  Hague,  44,  71 

Carillons  in  Amsterdam,  177 

Cathedral  of  Naples,  scene  in,  279 

Cave  dwellers  in  Touraine,  106 

Channel  Islands,  40,  56 

Charivari  in  Moresnet,  170 

Charlemagne,  167 

Charles  the  First  on  the  Scilly  Islands,  33 

Cheese  market,  178,  181-184 

Cherbourg,  40-44,  60-62 

Chorals  form  church  towers,  138,  194 

Church  bells  of  Luxembourg,  138 


Index 

Clameur  de  Haro,  46 

Coaching  to  Belluno,  270,  271 

Coffin  on  head,  275 

Cognac  and  coffee,  89 

Coins  of  Liechtenstein,  224 

Commune  of  Ampezzo,  242 

Communion,  first  and  last;  street  processions  in  Moresnet,  171, 172 

Community  forests  and  pastures,  245,  267 

Constance,  Lake  of,  206 

Contarini  villa,  300 

Copper  lustre,  69 

Cortina  in  winter,  242 

Cotentin,  peninsula  of  the,  62-64,  70,  83,  86;  English  family  names 
in,  60-82 

Countess  of  Arundel  on  the  Brenta,  304 

Costumes:  in  Arden,  130;  in  the  Dolomites,  246;  in  Guernsey,  49; 
in  Liechtenstein,  218;  in  Rothenburg,  200 

Customs:  of  the  Brenta,  295,  296,  301 ;  of  Cortina,  247;  of  Liechten- 
stein, 219;  of  Naples,  274;  of  Normandy,  80;  of  Rothenburg,  198 

Dancing:  at  Cadore,  268;  in  streets  of  Amsterdam,  178;  in  the  rain 

in  Luxembourg,  140 
Dancing  Procession,  141 
D'Annunzio  on  the  Brenta,  287 
Dasburg,  152,  154 
Dictionary,  use  of,  68,  87 
Diekirch  fair,  155 
Diligence:  in  Arden,  120;  the  Cotentin,  64-68;  in  Liechtenstein,  221; 

in  Luxembourg,  146 
Distances  in  Europe,  102 
"Dog  Tray,"  les  chiens  de  trait,  164 
Dolomites  in  winter,  235-272 
Donau,  the  Danube,  205 
"Doozydoo,"  114 
Dordrecht,  185 
Douzaines,  49 

[313] 


Index 

Edam  cheese  market,  178,  181-184 

Embroiderers  in  Appenzell,  226 

Emma  and  Eginhard,  167 

Emmaburg,  chateau  of,  167 

English  family  names  in  the  Cotentin,  60-82 

Esch,  towers  of,  147 

Evelyn  on  the  Brenta,  287 

Fairs  at  St.  Cloud  and  St.  Germain,  107,  108 

Farmhouses:  in  Arden,  130;  in  Holland,  179;  in  Normandy,  90 

Feast  of  the  Gardeners,  108-117 

Figure-heads  from  ships,  39 

Fire  protection:  in  Luxembourg,  140;  in  Rothenburg,  193 

Fireplaces:  of  Malcontenta,  292,  293;  in  middle  of  rooms,  250,  254 

Flowers,  midwinter,  in  North  Atlantic,  24,  25 

"Fool's  advice,  a,"  84 

Forest  of  Arden,  118-135 

Forests,  community,  in  Dolomites,  245,  267 

Foscari  palace  on  the  Brenta,  291 

Foscarini,  Antonio,  and  Countess  of  Arundel,  304 

Foscarini  villa,  303,  304 

Franklin,  Benjamin,  almost  wrecked  on  the  Scillys,  32 

Froissart's  opinion  of  Venice,  289 

Funerals:  in  Naples,  275,  276;  in  Rothenburg,  195 

Fusina,  at  mouth  of  Brenta,  291 

Gambling  in  the  Neutral  Land,  165 

Gardens:  on  the  Brenta,  301;  of  Foscarini  villa,  306 

Gate  on  Rhine  bridge,  227 

German  Embassy,  160 

Gingerbread  fairs,  107,  108 

Giudecca,  of  Venice,  290 

Givonne,  120 

Glass  houses  in  Guernsey,  52,  58 

Godfrey,  of  Bouillon,  his  castle  and  tower,  121-125 

Goschenen,  229 

"Gramercy,"  76 

[314] 


Index 

Grand-duchess  of  Luxembourg,  138,  141 

Grand-duchy  of  Luxembourg,  136-156 

Greville:  family  of,  64;  town  of,  70 

Guernsey,  45-59;  capital  of,  48;  Clameur  de  Haro,  46;  courts  and 

parliament,  49-52,  57;  governor  of,  57;  how  to  get  there,  40; 

more  Norman  than  English,  45;  taxes,  55 

Half-timbered  houses,  200 

"Ha!  Ro!"  46 

Henry  the  Third:  Brenta  palace  he  visited,  293;  where  he  was 

killed,  115 

Highway  for  the  world,  Once  a,  285 
Holland,  watertochtjes  in,  175-188 
Horseless  farming,  153 
Horses  of  the  Venetians,  288 
Hospenthal,  232 
Hugh  Town,  20,  38 
Humor  in  Italy,  296 

Icicles,  dangerous,  in  the  Dolomites,  239 

Inns:  in  Andermatt  in  winter,  232;  in  Arden,  121;  in  Becquet,  73; 
in  Cadore,  268;  in  Cortina,  242;  in  the  Cotentin,  68,  89;  in  the 
Dolomites,  241;  in  Innsbruck,  204,  233;  in  Liechtenstein,  7,  n, 
213;  in  Luxembourg,  136;  in  Moresnet,  169;  old-time  Italian, 
250;  post-inns  in  Italy,  270 

Innsbruck,  204,  233 

Jacques  found  in  Arden,  135 

Jersey,  40,  56 

Johann  the  Second,  of  Liechtenstein,  212 

John  the  Errant,  145 

Kelmis,  159,  168 
"Kolonial  Waaren,"  197 

Ladders  for  lovers,  247 
Lafayette,  66 
Lagoons  at  Venice,  291 
La  Manche,  63 

[315] 


Index 

"Landes,"  70 

Landesverweser,  13,  213 

Landlord  of  inn  at  Cadore,  253 

Land's  End,  18 

"Les  dernieres  Cartouches,"  119 

Liechtenstein,  independent  principality  of,  7-14,  204-227;  capital, 
209;  castle  of,  14,  220;  coinage,  224;  costumes  of,  218;  customs, 
219;  governor  of,  12,  213,  214;  prince  of,  207-214 

Lime  for  campanile  of  Venice,  300 

Lioness,  the,  34 

Liquefaction  of  blood,  276,  282 

Loevestein,  fortress  of,  186 

Lovers,  old  peasant,  73 

Luxembourg,  free  and  independent,  136-156;  ancient  fortifications, 
139;  capital  of,  138;  its  court,  142;  its  grand-duchess,  138;  its 
many  castles,  147;  its  tiny  army,  139;  legends  of,  148 

Lyonesse,  34,  36 

Maas,  1 86 

Malcontenta,  the  forgotten  palace  of,  291-293 

March  of  the  Muttons,  140 

Marly-le-Roi,  105 

"Meister-trunk,"  the,  201 

Millet,  birthplace  of,  70 

Monastery,  Trappist,  132 

Montagues,  Montaigu,  Norman  home  of,  78 

Montlouis,  a  settlement  of  cave  dwellers,  107 

Mora,  the  ship  of  William  the  Conquerer,  63 

Moresnet,  Neutral,  157-174 

Mottoes  in  Rothenburg,  197 

Mountain  fight  in  '48,  252-266 

Naples,  an  unfamiliar,  273-284 
Napoleon  at  Plymouth,  17 
Napoleon  III.  in  Bouillon,  121 
Neutral  Moresnet,  157-174 
Neuville,  de,  scene  of  picture,  119 

[316] 


Index 

Nez  de  Jobourg,  71 

Nick  Carter  in  Holland,  176 

Night  watch  in  Cherbourg,  62 

No  Man's  Land,  158 

Norman  characteristics  in  Guernsey,  49 

Normandy,  60-101 

Norman-French:  in  Guernsey,  46;  used  by  King  of  England,  77 

Norman  peasant's  house,  90 

Old  approach  to  Venice,  285 
Old-time  inns  in  the  Dolomites,  250 
Our,  the  River,  152 

Padua,  Venetian  possession  of,  300 

Palace:  of  the  Doges,  roof-timbers  from  Cadore,  243;  of  Malcon- 

tenta,  291-293;  of  the  Pisani,  306;  at  Stra,  306 
Palladio's  palace  of  Malcontenta,  291-293 
Parade  in  Naples,  278 

Paris:  byways  in,  104;  finding  the  unexpected  in,  103 
Passion  Play  at  Bouillon,  132 

Patricians:  in  Rothenburg,  198;  on  the  Brenta,  297,  298 
Peasants:  in  palaces,  293,  298;  in  villages  instead  of  isolated  homes, 

ISS 

Penzance,  16-18 

Percys,  the,  64 

Pieve  di  Cadore,  248,  252,  266-270 

Pilgrims  at  Plymouth,  17 

Pisani,  palace  of  the,  306 

Plymouth,  16,  17 

Post-inns  in  Italy,  270 

Postwagen  routes:  in  Liechtenstein,  207;  in  Luxembourg,  154 

Prince  of  Liechtenstein,  207,  214 

Prince  of  Wales'  Feathers,  origin  of,  146 

Principality  of  Liechtenstein,  7-14,  204-227 

Quentin  Durward,  122 
Querqueville,  home  of  Kirks,  72 

[317] 


Index 

Race  of  Alderney,  44 

Rag-pickers'  quarter,  104 

Rathhaus  of  Rothenburg,  191,  193 

Restaurant  in  Alkmaar,  184 

Rheims,  118 

Rhine:  in  Holland,  186;  in  Liechtenstein,  222,  225-227 

"Right  of  home,"  197 

Rollo,  Duke,  48 

Roof-timbers  of  Doge's  Palace,  243 

Rothenburg,  189-203 

Royal  Park  of  St.  Cloud,  116 

Rue  Mouffetard,  104 

Rue  Royale  of  St.  Cloud,  115 

Rue  St.  Antoine,  103 

Ruined  palaces  of  the  Brenta,  285 

"Salute,"  268 

Saracen  mother  of  Thomas  a  Becket,  72 

Sark,  40 

School,  buzz  from  a,  88 

Scillonians,  23,  33 

Scilly  Islands,  16-39 

Sedan,  119 

Semois,  the,  121;  meanderings  of,  129 

Sentinels  in  Alps,  230 

Shakespeare's  Arden,  118-135 

Shovel,  Sir  Cloudesley,  31 

Silver  bust  of  St.  Januarius,  276,  277 

Sledging:  over  St.  Gotthard,  229;  through  Dolomites,  237;  to  Italy, 

249 

Smith,  Mr.,  of  the  Scillys,  22-26 
Spanish  towers  of  Luxembourg,  139 
St.  Andrew's  Cross  in  Normandy,  94 
St.  Clair,  family  of,  64 
St.  Cloud:  church  of,  109;  feast  and  town,  109-112;  gingerbread 

fair,  108 


Index 

St.  George  in  the  Seaweed,  290 

St.  Germain,  fair  of,  107 

St.  Gotthard  Pass  in  winter,  228-233 

St.  Januarius,  liquefaction  of  blood,  284 

St.  John,  family  of,  64 

St.  Mary's,  island  of,  20 

St.  Peter-Port,  48 

Statues:  forlorn,  on  the  Brenta,  293;  silver,  of  saint,  276,  277 

Steamer  stopovers,  41 

"Stickerei,"  226 

Stone  posts  for  cattle,  71 

Stoves  of  stone:  in  the  Dolomites,  241;  in  Liechtenstein,  n 

Stra,  palace  at,  306,  307 

Strada  d'Allemagna,  240 

Stucco  on  houses,  295 

Superstitions:  of  the  Brenta,  296;  of  Normandy,  98 

Taxes:  a  country  exempt  from,  208;  curiously  graded,  in  Luxem- 
bourg, 151;  unique,  in  Guernsey,  55 
Tennyson's  visit  to  the  Scilly  Islands,  36 
Thatching  of  roofs,  92 
Titian:  in  Cadore,  268-270;  in  Venice,  271 
Toblach,  235,  237 
"Toilers  of  the  Sea,"  53 
Toledo,  the,  of  Naples,  273 
Touchstone  found  in  Arden,  127 
Touraine,  106 
Town-crier,  27 

Trains  in  Europe,  17,  103,  229 
Trappist  Monastery,  132 
Tresco,  island  of,  25 
Triangle,  the  Neutral,  158,  169,  173 
Tristram  and  Ysolte,  35 
Tropical  England,  21 

Ulm,  205 

Under  two  kings,  a  country,  157 

[319] 


Index 

Vaduz,  a  capital  of  Europe,  207-210,  224 

Valmarano,  villa  of,  297 

Valognes,  84 

Venetians  on  horseback,  288 

Venice:  approach  by  the  Brenta,  285;  the  Dolomites  from,  271; 

timbers  for,  243 
Veronese,  271 
Veteran  of  '48,  254 
Vianden,  141,  148,  152 
Vieille  Montagne,  159 
Villas :  of  the  Brenta,  288,  294,  297 ;  of  Valmarano,  297 ;  of  Venetians, 

286 

Waal,  the,  185,  186 

Walloon  spoken,  119 

Walloons,  130 

Washing  in  Normandy,  80 

Water  approach  to  Venice,  the  old,  285 

Watertochtjes  in  Holland,  175-188 

Weddings:  in  the  Cotentin,  100;  in  the  Dolomites,  248;  in  Luxem- 
bourg, 144;  in  Rothenburg,  194;  where  Chaucer,  Petrarch,  and 
Froissart  were  guests,  289 

Whipping  in  Guernsey,  51 

WiHiam  the  Conquerer:  "taking  a  fool's  advice,"  84;  the  father 
of,  8 1 

William  Tell,  a  modern,  visited  at  his  home,  252 

Winter  in  the  Alps,  228 

Women:  in  Moresnet,  173;  in  Normandy,  75 

Wrecks  on  the  Scilly  Islands,  28-32,  37-39 

Yew  tree,  very  old,  in  Normandy,  95 
Zuyder  Zee,  175 


[320] 


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